THE  BOOK  OF 
KHALI  D 


BY 

AMEEN 
RIHANI 


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THE  BOOK  OF  KHALID 


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THE 
BOOK  OF   KHALID 


BY 


AMEEN    RIHANI 


NEW   YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND   COMPANY 

1911 


Copyright,  191  i 
B»  DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 

Published,  October,  1911 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  THE  FIRST 
IN  THE  EXCHANGE 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

Al-Eatihah V 

To  Man 3 

I    Probing  the  Trivial 5 

II    The  City  of  Baal 14 

III  Via   Dolorosa 25 

IV  On  the  Wharf  of  Enchantment 34 

V  The  Cellar  of  the  Soul 46 

VI    The  Summer  Afternoon  of  a  Sham  ....     58 

VII    In  the  Twilight  of  an  Idea 70 

VIII    With  the  Huris 83 

BOOK  THE  SECOND 
IN  THE  TEMPLE 

To  Nature 97 

I    The  Dowry  of  Democracy 99 

II    Subtranscendental 115 

III  The  False  Dawn 125 

IV  The   Last   Star 130 

V  Priesto-Parental 143 

VI    Flounces  and  Ruffles 154 

VII    The  Ho\\t)aj  of  Falsehood 167 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

VIII    The  Kaaba  of  Solitude 18 1 

IX    Signs  of  the  Hermit 192 

X    The  Vineyard  in  the  Kaaba 202 

BOOK  THE  THIRD 

IN  KULMAKAN 
chapter  page 

To    God 217 

I    The  Disentanglement  of  the  Me 219 

II    The  Voice  of  the  Dawn 231 

III  The  Self  Ecstatic 239 

IV  On  the  Open  Highway 249 

V    Union  and  Progress 274 

VI    Revolutions  Within  and  Without    ....  287 

VII    A  Dream  of  Empire 298 

VIII    Adumbrations S^i 

IX    The   Stoning  and  Flight 325 

X    The  Desert 333 

Al-Khatimah 341 


AL-FATIHAH 

TN  the  Khedivial  Library  of  Cairo,  among  the  Pap- 
yri of  the  Scribe  of  Amen-Ra  and  the  beautifully 
illuminated  copies  of  the  Koran,  the  modern  Arabic 
Manuscript  which  forms  the  subject  of  this  Book,  was 
found.  The  present  Editor  was  attracted  to  it  by  the 
dedication  and  the  rough  drawings  on  the  cover ;  which, 
indeed,  are  as  curious,  if  not  as  mystical,  as  ancient 
Egyptian  symbols.  One  oi  these  is  supposed  to  repre- 
sent a  New  York  Skyscraper  in  the  shape  of  a  Pyramid, 
the  other  is  a  dancing  group  under  which  is  written: 
"  The  Stockbrokers  and  the  Dervishes."  And  around 
these  symbols,  in  Arabic  circlewise,  these  words:  — 
"And  this  is  7ny  Book,  the  Book  of  Khalid,  which  I 
dedicate  to  my  Brother  Man,  my  Mother  Nature,  and 
my  Maker  God." 

Needless  to  say  we  asked  at  once  the  Custodian  of  the 
Library  to  give  us  access  to  this  Book  of  Khalid,  and 
after  examining  it,  we  hired  an  amanuensis  to  make  a 
copy  for  us.  Which  copy  we  subsequently  used  as  the 
warp  of  our  material;  the  woof  we  shall  speak  of  in 
the  following  chapter.  No,  there  is  nothing  in 
this  Work  which  we  can  call  ours,  except  it  be  the 
Loom.  But  the  weaving,  we  assure  the  Reader,  was 
a  mortal  process;  for  the  material  is  of  such  a  mixture 
that  here  and  there  the  raw  silk  of  Syria  is  often  spun 
with  the  cotton  and  wool  of  America.     In  other  words, 


AL-FATIHAM 

the  Author  dips  his  antique  pen  in  a  modern  inkstand, 
and  when  the  ink  runs  thick,  he  mixes  it  with  a  slab- 
bering of  slang.  But  we  started  to  write  an  Intro- 
duction, not  a  Criticism.  And  lest  we  end  by  writing 
neither,  we  give  here  what  is  more  to  the  point  than 
anything  we  can  say:  namely,  Al-Fatihah,  or  the  Open- 
ing Word  of  Khalid  himself. 

With  supreme  indifference  to  the  classic  Arabic 
proem,  he  begins  by  saying  that  his  Book  is  neither 
a  Memoir  nor  an  Autobiography,  neither  a  Journal  nor 
a  Confession. 

"  Orientals,"  says  he,  "  seldom  adventure  into  that 
region  of  fancy  and  fabrication  so  alluring  to  European 
and  American  writers;  for,  like  the  eyes  of  huris,  our 
vanity  is  soft  and  demure.  This  then  is  a  book  of 
travels  in  an  impalpable  country,  an  enchanted  country, 
from  which  we  have  all  risen,  and  towards  which  we 
are  still  rising.  It  is,  as  it  were,  the  chart  and  history 
of  one  little  kingdom  of  the  Soul, —  the  Soul  of  a  phi- 
losopher, poet  and  criminal.  I  am  all  three,  I  swear, 
for  I  have  lived  both  the  wild  and  the  social  life.  And 
I  have  thirsted  in  the  desert,  and  I  have  thirsted  in  the 
city:  the  springs  of  the  former  were  dry;  the  water 
in  the  latter  was  frozen  in  the  pipes.  That  is  why,  to 
save  my  life,  I  had  to  be  an  incendiary  at  times,  and 
at  others  a  footpad.  And  whether  on  the  streets  of 
knowledge,  or  in  the  open  courts  of  love,  or  in  the 
parks  of  freedom,  or  in  the  cellars  and  garrets  of 
thought  and  devotion,  the  only  saki  that  would  give 
me  a  drink  without  the  asking  was  he  who  called  him- 
self Patience.     .     ,     . 

vi 


AL-FATIHAH 

"  And  so,  the  Book  of  Khalid  was  written.  It  is 
the  only  one  I  wrote  in  this  world,  having  made,  as 
I  said,  a  brief  sojourn  in  its  civilised  parts.  I  leave 
it  now  where  I  wrote  it,  and  I  hope  to  write  other 
books  in  other  worlds.  Now  understand,  Allah  keep 
and  guide  thee,  I  do  not  leave  it  here  merely  as  a  certifi- 
cate of  birth  or  death.  I  do  not  raise  it  up  as  an  epi- 
taph, a  trade-sign,  or  any  other  emblem  of  vainglory  or 
lucre;  but  truly  as  a  propylon  through  which  my  race 
and  those  above  and  below  my  race,  are  invited  to  pass 
to  that  higher  Temple  of  mind  and  spirit.  For  we  are 
all  tourists,  in  a  certain  sense,  and  this  world  is  the 
most  ancient  of  monuments.  We  go  through  life  as 
those  pugreed-solar-hatted-Europeans  go  through 
Egypt.  We  are  pestered  and  plagued  with  guides  and 
dragomans  of  every  rank  and  shade;  —  social  and  polit- 
ical guides,  moral  and  religious  dragomans:  a  Tolstoy 
here,  an  Ibsen  there,  a  Spencer  above,  a  Nietzche  be- 
low. And  there  thou  art  left  in  perpetual  confusion 
and  despair.  Where  wilt  thou  go  ?  Whom  wilt  thou 
follow  ? 

"  Or  wilt  thou  tarry  to  see  the  work  of  redemption 
accomplished?  For  Society  must  be  redeemed,  and 
many  are  the  redeemers.  The  Cross,  however,  is  out 
of  fashion,  and  so  is  the  Dona  Dulcinea  motive.  How- 
beit,  what  an  array  of  Masters  and  Knights  have  we, 
and  what  a  variety!  The  work  can  be  done,  and 
speedily,  if  we  could  but  choose.  Wagner  can  do  it 
with  music;  Bakunin,  with  dynamite;  Karl  Marx, 
with  the  levelling  rod;  Haeckel,  with  an  injection 
of  protoplasmic  logic;  the  Pope,  with  a  pinch  of  salt 
vii 


AL-FATIHAH 

and  chrism;  and  the  Packer-Kings  of  America,  with 
pork  and  beef.  What  wilt  thou  have?  Whom  wilt 
thou  employ?  Many  are  the  applicants,  many  are 
the  guides.  But  if  they  are  all  going  the  way  of 
Juhannam,  the  Beef-packer  I  would  choose.  For  ver- 
ily, a  gobbet  of  beef  on  the  way  were  better  than 
canned  protoplasmic  logic  or  bottled  salt  and 
chrism.     .     .     . 

"  No ;  travel  not  on  a  Cook's  ticket ;  avoid  the  guides. 
Take  up  thy  staff  and  foot  it  slowly  and  leisurely; 
tarry  wherever  thy  heart  would  tarry.  There  is  no 
need  of  hurrying,  O  my  Brother,  whether  eternal 
Juhannam  or  eternal  Jannat  await  us  yonder.  Come ; 
if  thou  hast  not  a  staff,  I  have  two.  And  what  I 
have  in  my  Scrip  I  will  share  with  thee.  But  turn 
thy  back  to  the  guides ;  for  verily  we  see  more  of  them 
than  of  the  ruins  and  monuments.  Verily,  we  get 
more  of  the  Dragomans  than  of  the  Show.  Why  then 
continue  to  move  and  remove  at  their  command  ?  — 
Take  thy  guidebook  in  hand  and  I  will  tell  thee  what 
is  in  it. 

"  No ;  the  time  will  come,  I  tell  thee,  when  every 
one  will  be  his  own  guide  and  dragoman.  The 
time  will  come  when  it  will  not  be  necessary  to  write 
books  for  others,  or  to  legislate  for  others,  or  to  make 
religions  for  others:  the  time  will  come  when  every 
one  will  write  his  own  Book  in  the  Life  he  lives,  and 
that  Book  will  be  his  code  and  his  creed;  —  that  Life- 
Book  will  be  the  palace  and  cathedral  of  his  Soul  in 
all  the  Worlds." 


BOOK  THE  FIRST 
IN  THE  EXCHANGE 


TO  MAN 

No  matter  how  good  thou  art,  O  my  Brother, 
Or  how  bad  thou  art,  no  matter  how  high  or  how 
low  in  the  scale  of  being  thou  art,  I  still  would  be- 
lieve in  thee,  and  have  faith  in  thee,  and  love  thee. 
For  do  I  not  know  what  clings  to  thee,  and  what 
beckons  to  thee?  The  claws  of  the  one  and  the  zvings 
of  the  other,  have  I  not  felt  and  seen?  Look  up, 
therefore,  and  behold  this  World-Temple,  which,  to 
us,  shall  be  a  resting-place,  and  not  a  goal.  On  the 
border-line  of  the  Orient  and  Occident  it  is  built,  on 
the  mountain-heights  overlooking  both.  No  false  gods 
are  worshipped  in  it, — no  philosophic,  theologic,  or 
anthropomorphic  gods.  Yea,  and  the  god  of  the 
priests  and  prophets  is  buried  beneath  the  Fountain, 
which  is  the  altar  of  the  Temple,  and  from  which 
flows  the  eternal  spirit  of  our  Maker  —  our  Maker 
who  blinketh  when  the  Claws  are  deep  in  our  flesh. 


and  smileth  when  the  Wings  spring  from  our  Wounds. 
Verily,  we  are  the  children  of  the  God  of  Humour, 
and  the  Fountain  in  His  Temple  is  ever  Rowing. 
Tarry,  and  refresh  thyself,  O  my  Brother,  tarry,  and 
refresh  thyself. 

Khalid. 


CHAPTER  I 

PROBING  THE  TRIVIAL 

'  I  ^HE  most  Important  in  the  history  of  nations  and 
individuals  was  once  the  most  trivial,  and  vice 
versa.  The  plebeian,  who  is  called  to-day  the  man- 
in-the-street,  can  never  see  and  understand  the  sig- 
nificance of  the  hidden  seed  of  things,  which  in  time 
must  develop  or  die.  A  garter  dropt  in  the  ball- 
room of  Royalty  gives  birth  to  an  Order  of  Knight- 
hood ;  a  movement  to  reform  the  spelling  of  the  English 
language,  initiated  by  one  of  the  presidents  of  a  great 
Republic,  becomes  eventually  an  object  of  ridicule. 
Only  two  instances  to  illustrate  our  point,  which  is 
applicable  also  to  time-honoured  truths  and  moralities. 
But  no  matter  how  important  or  trivial  these,  he  who 
would  give  utterance  to  them  must  do  so  in  cap  and 
bells,  if  he  would  be  heard  nowadays.  Indeed,  the 
play  is  always  the  thing;  the  frivolous  is  the  most 
essential,  if  only  as  a  disguise. —  For  look  you,  are 
we  not  too  prosperous  to  consider  seriously  your  pon- 
derous preachment?  And  when  you  bring  it  to  us 
in  book  form,  do  you  expect  us  to  take  it  into  our 
homes  and  take  you  into  our  hearts  to  boot?  —  Which 
argument  is  convincing  even  to  the  man  in  the  barn. 
But  the  Author  of  the  Khedivial  Library  Manu- 
script can  make  his  Genius  dance  the  dance  of  the 
[  5  ] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

seven  veils,  if  you  but  knew.  It  is  to  be  regretted, 
how^ever,  that  he  has  not  mastered  the  most  subtle  of 
arts,  the  art  of  writing  about  one's  self.  He  seldom 
brushes  his  wings  against  the  dust  or  lingers  among 
the  humble  flowers  close  to  the  dust:  he  does  not 
follow  the  masters  in  their  entertaining  trivialities  and 
fatuities.  We  remember  that  even  Gibbon  inter- 
rupts the  turgid  flow  of  his  spirit  to  tell  us  in  his  Auto- 
biography that  he  really  could,  and  often  did,  enjoy 
a  game  of  cards  in  the  evening.  And  Rousseau,  in 
a  suppurative  passion,  whispers  to  us  in  his  Confessions 
that  he  even  kissed  the  linen  of  Madame  de  Warens' 
bed  when  he  was  alone  in  her  room.  And  Spencer 
devotes  whole  pages  in  his  dull  and  ponderous  history 
of  himself  to  narrate  the  all-important  narration  of 
his  constant  indisposition, —  to  assure  us  that  his  ill 
health  more  than  once  threatened  the  mighty  task  he 
had  in  hand.  These,  to  be  sure,  are  most  important 
revelations.  But  Khalid  here  misses  his  cue.  Inspira- 
tion does  not  seem  to  come  to  him  in  firefly-fashion. 
He  would  have  done  well,  indeed,  had  he  studied 
the  method  of  the  professional  writers  of  Memoirs, 
especially  those  of  France.  For  might  he  not  then 
have  discoursed  delectably  on  The  Romance  of  my 
Stick  Pin,  The  Tragedy  of  my  Sombrero,  The  Scandal 
of  my  Red  Flannel,  The  Conquest  of  my  Silk  Socks, 
The  Adventures  of  my  Tuxedo,  and  such  like?  But 
Khalid  is  modest  only  in  the  things  that  pertain  to  the 
outward  self.  He  wrote  of  other  Romances  and  other 
Tragedies.  And  when  his  Genius  is  not  dancing  the 
dance  of  the  seven  veils,  she  is  either  flirting  with  the 
[  6] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

monks  of  the  Lebanon  hills  or  setting  fire  to  something 
in  New  York.  But  this  is  not  altogether  satisfactory 
to  the  present  Editor,  who,  unlike  the  Author  of  the 
Khedivial  Library  MS.,  must  keep  the  reader  in  mind. 
'Tis  very  well  to  endeavour  to  unfold  a  few  of  the  mys- 
teries of  one's  palingenesis,  but  why  conceal  from  us  his 
origin?  For  is  it  not  important,  is  it  not  the  fashion 
at  least,  that  one  writing  his  own  history  should  first 
expatiate  on  the  humble  origin  of  his  ancestors  and  the 
distant  obscure  source  of  his  genius?  And  having 
done  this,  should  he  not  then  tell  us  how  he  behaved 
in  his  boyhood;  whether  or  not  he  made  anklets  of 
his  mother's  dough  for  his  little  sister ;  whether  he  did 
not  kindle  the  fire  with  his  father's  Koran;  whether 
he  did  not  walk  under  the  rainbow  and  try  to  reach 
the  end  of  it  on  the  hill-top;  and  whether  he  did  not 
write  verse  when  he  was  but  five  years  of  age.  About 
these  essentialities  Khalid  is  silent.  We  only  know 
from  him  that  he  is  a  descendant  of  the  brave  sea-dar- 
ing Phoenicians  —  a  title  which  might  be  claimed  with 
justice  even  by  the  aborigines  of  Yucatan  —  and  that 
he  was  born  in  the  city  of  Baalbek,  in  the  shadow  of 
the  great  Heliopolis,  a  little  way  from  the  mountain- 
road  to  the  Cedars  of  Lebanon.  All  else  in  this  di- 
rection is  obscure. 

And  the  K.  L.  MS.  which  we  kept  under  our  pil- 
low for  thirteen  days  and  nights,  was  beginning  to 
worry  us.  After  all,  might  it  not  be  a  literary  hoax, 
we  thought,  and  might  not  this  Khalid  be  a  myth. 
And  yet,  he  does  not  seem  to  have  sought  any  ma- 
terial or  worldly  good  from  the  writing  of  his  Book. 
[  7  1 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

Why,  then,  should  he  resort  to  deception?  Still,  we 
doubted.  And  one  evening  we  were  detained  by  the 
sandomancer,  or  sand-diviner,  who  was  sitting  cross- 
legged  on  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  the  mosque.  "  I 
know  your  mind,"  said  he,  before  we  had  made  up  our 
mind  to  consult  him.  And  mumbling  his  "  abraca- 
dabra "  over  the  sand  spread  on  a  cloth  before  him, 
he  took  up  his  bamboo-stick  and  wrote  therein  — 
Khalid!  This  was  amazing.  "And  I  know  more," 
said  he.  But  after  scouring  the  heaven,  he  shook  his 
head  regretfully  and  wrote  in  the  sand  the  name  of 
one  of  the  hasheesh-dens  of  Cairo.  "  Go  thither;  and 
come  to  see  me  again  to-morrow  evening."  Saying 
which,  he  folded  his  sand-book  of  magic,  pocketed  his 
fee,  and  walked  away. 

In  that  hasheesh-den, —  the  reekiest,  dingiest  of  the 
row  in  the  Red  Quarter, —  where  the  etiolated  intel- 
lectualities of  Cairo  flock  after  midnight,  the  name 
of  Khalid  evokes  much  resounding  wit,  and  sarcasm, 
and  laughter. 

"  You  mean  the  new  Muhdi,"  said  one,  offering  us 
his  chobok  of  hasheesh ;  "  smoke  to  his  health  and  pros- 
perity.    Ha,  ha,  ha." 

And  the  chorus  of  laughter,  which  is  part  and  parcel 
of  a  hasheesh  jag,  was  tremendous.  Every  one  there- 
upon had  something  to  say  on  the  subject.  The  con- 
tagion could  not  be  checked.  And  Khalid  was  called 
"the  dervish  of  science"  by  one;  "the  rope-dancer 
of  nature  "  by  another. 

"*  Our  Prophet  lived   In   a  cave  in  the  wilderness 
of  New  York  for  five  years,"  remarked  a  third. 
[  8  ] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

"  And  he  sold  his  camel  yesterday  and  bought  a 
bicycle  instead." 

"  The  Young  Turks  can  not  catch  him  now." 

"Ah,  but  wait  till  England  gets  after  our  new 
Muhdi." 

"  Wait  till  his  new  phthisic-stricken  wife  dies." 

"  Whom  will  our  Prophet  marry,  if  among  all 
the  virgins  of  Egypt  we  can  not  find  a  consumptive 
for  him?" 

"  And  when  he  pulls  down  the  pyramids  to  build 
American  Skyscrapers  with  their  stones,  where  shall 
we  bury  then  our  Muhdi?" 

All  of  which,  although  mystifying  to  us,  and  de- 
pressing, was  none  the  less  reassuring.  For  Khalid, 
it  seems,  is  not  a  myth.  No;  we  can  even  see  him, 
we  are  told,  and  touch  him,  and  hear  him  speak. 

"  Shakib  the  poet,  his  most  intimate  friend  and 
disciple,  will  bring  you  into  the  sacred  presence." 

"  You  can  not  miss  him,  for  he  is  the  drummer  of 
our  new  Muhdi,  ha,  ha,  ha!  " 

And  this  Shakib  was  then  suspended  and  stoned. 
But  their  humour,  like  the  odor  and  smoke  of  gunjah, 
(hasheesh)  was  become  stifling.  So,  we  lay  our  cho- 
bok  down;  and,  thanking  them  for  the  entertainment, 
we  struggle  through  the  rolling  reek  and  fling  to  the 
open  air. 

In  the  grill-room  of  the  Mena  House  we  meet  the 
poet  Shakib,  who  was  then  drawing  his  inspiration 
from  a  glass  of  whiskey  and  soda.  Nay,  he  was 
drowning  his  sorrows  therein,  for  his  Master,  alas! 
has  mysteriously  disappeared. 
[  9] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

"  I  have  not  seen  him  for  ten  days,"  said  the  Poet; 
"and  I  know  not  where  he  is. —  If  I  did?  Ah,  my 
friend,  you  would  not  then  see  me  here.  Indeed,  I 
should  be  with  him,  and  though  he  be  in  the  trap  of 
the  Young  Turks."  And  some  real  tears  flowed 
down  the  cheeks  of  the  Poet,  as  he  spoke. 

The  Mena  House,  a  charming  little  Branch  of  Civi- 
lisation at  the  gate  of  the  desert,  stands,  like  man  him- 
self, in  the  shadow  of  two  terrible  immensities,  the 
Sphinx  and  the  Pyramid,  the  Origin  and  the  End. 
And  in  the  grill-room,  over  a  glass  of  whiskey  and  soda, 
we  presume  to  solve  in  few  words  the  eternal  mys- 
tery. But  that  is  not  what  we  came  for.  And  to 
avoid  the  bewildering  depths  into  which  we  were  led, 
we  suggested  a  stroll  on  the  sands.  Here  the  Poet 
waxed  more  eloquent,  and  shed  more  tears. 

"This  is  our  favourite  haunt,"  said  he;  "here  is 
where  we  ramble,  here  is  where  we  loaf.  And  Khalid 
once  said  to  me,  '  In  loafing  here,  I  work  as  hard  as 
did  the  masons  and  hod-carriers  who  laboured  on  these 
pyramids.'  And  I  believe  him.  For  is  not  a  book 
greater  than  a  pyramid  ?  Is  not  a  mosque  or  a  palace 
better  than  a  tomb?  An  object  is  great  in  proportion 
to  its  power  of  resistance  to  time  and  the  elements. 
That  is  why  we  think  the  pyramids  are  great.  But 
see,  the  desert  is  greater  than  the  pyramids,  and  the  sea 
is  greater  than  the  desert,  and  the  heavens  are  greater 
than  the  sea.  And  yet,  there  is  not  in  all  these  that 
immortal  intelligence,  that  living,  palpitating  soul, 
which  you  find  in  a  great  book.  A  man  who  con- 
ceives and  writes  a  great  book,  my  friend,  has  done 

[lO] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

more  work  than  all  the  helots  that  laboured  on  these 
pyramidal  futilities.  That  is  why  I  find  no  exag- 
geration in  Khalid's  words.  For  when  he  loafs,  he 
does  so  in  good  earnest.  Not  like  the  camel-driver 
there  or  the  camel,  but  after  the  manner  of  the  great 
thinkers  and  mystics:  like  Al-Fared  and  Jelal'ud-Deen 
Rumy,  like  Socrates  and  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  Khalid 
loafs.  For  can  you  escape  being  reproached  for  idle- 
ness by  merely  working?  Are  you  going  to  waste 
your  time  and  power  in  useless  unproductive  labour, 
carrying  dates  to  Hajar  (or  coals  to  Newcastle,  which 
is  the  English  equivalent),  that  you  might  not  be 
called  an  idler,  a  loafer?" 

"  Indeed  not,"  we  reply;  "  for  the  Poet  taking  in  the 
sea,  or  the  woods,  or  the  starry-night,  the  poet  who 
might  be  just  sharing  the  sunshine  with  the  salamander, 
is  as  much  a  labourer  as  the  stoker  or  the  brick- 
layer." 

And  with  a  few  more  such  remarks,  we  showed  our 
friend  that,  not  being  of  india-rubber,  we  could  not 
but  expand  under  the  heat  of  his  grandiosity. 

We  then  make  our  purpose  known,  and  Shakib  is 
overjoyed.     He  offers  to  kiss  us  for  the  noble  thought. 

"  Yes,  Europe  should  know  Khalid  better,  and 
only  through  you  and  me  can  this  be  done.  For  you 
can  not  properly  understand  him,  unless  you  read  the 
Histoire  Intime,  which  I  have  just  finished.  That 
will  give  you  les  dessous  de  cartes  of  his  character." 

"  Les  dessons"  —  and  the  Poet  who  intersperses 
his  Arabic  with  fancy  French,  explains. —  "  The  lining, 
the  ligaments." —  "  Ah,  that  is  exactly  what  we  want." 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

And  he  offers  to  let  us  have  the  use  of  his  Manu- 
script, if  we  link  his  name  with  that  of  his  illustrious 
Master  in  this  Book.  To  which  we  cheerfully  agree. 
For  after  all,  what's  in  a  name? 

On  the  following  day,  lugging  an  enormous  bundle 
under  each  arm,  the  Poet  came.  We  were  stunned  as 
he  stood  in  the  door;  we  felt  as  if  he  had  struck  us  in 
the  head  with  them. 

"  This  is  the  Histoire  Intime"  said  he,  laying  it 
gently  on  the  table. 

And  we  laid  our  hand  upon  it,  fetching  a  deep  sigh. 
Our  misgivings,  however,  were  lighted  with  a  happy 
idea.  We  will  hire  a  few  boys  to  read  it,  we  thought, 
and  mark  out  the  passages  which  please  them  most. 
That  will  be  just  what  an  editor  wants. 

"  And  this,"  continued  the  Poet,  laying  down  the 
other  bundle,"  is  the  original  manuscript  of  my  forth- 
coming Book  of  Poems. —  " 

Sweet  of  him,  we  thought,  to  present  it  to  us. 

"  It  will  be  issued  next  Autumn  in  Cairo.  —  " 

Fortunate  City! 

"  And  if  you  will  get  to  work  on  it  at  once, —  " 

Mercy! 

"  You  can  get  out  an  English  Translation  in  three 
months,  I  am  sure  —  " 

We  sink  in  our  chair  In  breathless  amazement. 

"  The  Book  will  then  appear  simultaneously  both  in 
London  and  Cairo." 

We  sit  up,  revived  with  another  happy  idea,  and 
assure  the  Poet  that  his  Work  will  be  translated  into  a 
universal  language,  and  that  very  soon.     For  which 

[12] 


IN    THE     EXCHANGE 

assurance  he  kisses  us  again  and  again,  and  goes  away 
hugging  his  Muse. 

The  idea!  A  Book  of  Poems  to  translate  into 
the  English  language!  As  if  the  English  language 
has  not  enough  of  its  own  troubles!  Translate  it, 
O  Fire,  into  your  language!  Which  work  the  Fire 
did  in  two  minutes.  And  the  dancing,  leaping,  sing- 
ing flames,  the  white  and  blue  and  amber  flames,  were 
more  beautiful,  we  thought,  than  anything  the  Ms. 
might  contain. 

As  for  the  Histoire  Intime,  we  split  it  into  three 
parts  and  got  our  boys  working  on  it.  The  result 
was  most  satisfying.  For  now  we  can  show,  and 
though  he  is  a  native  of  Asia,  the  land  of  the  Prophets, 
and  though  he  conceals  from  us  his  origin  after  the 
manner  of  the  Prophets,  that  he  was  born  and  bred 
and  fed,  and  even  thwacked,  like  all  his  fellows  there, 
this  Khalid. 


[13  I 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  CITY  OF  BAAL 

'T^HE  City  of  Baal,  or  Baalbek,  is  between  the 
■■•  desert  and  the  deep  sea.  It  lies  at  the  foot  of 
Anti-Libanus,  in  the  sunny  plains  of  Coele-Syria,  a 
day's  march  from  either  Damascus  or  Beirut.  It 
is  a  city  with  a  past  as  romantic  as  Rome's,  as 
wicked  as  Babel's;  its  ruins  testify  both  to  its  glory 
and  its  shame.  It  is  a  city  with  a  future  as  brilliant 
as  any  New- World  city;  the  railroad  at  its  gate,  the 
modern  agricultural  implements  in  its  fields,  and  the 
porcelain  bath-tubs  in  its  hotels,  can  testify  to  this. 
It  is  a  city  that  enticed  and  still  entices  the  mighty 
of  the  earth;  Roman  Emperors  in  the  past  came  to 
appease  the  wrath  of  its  gods,  a  German  Emperor  to- 
day comes  to  pilfer  its  temples.  For  the  Acropolis  in 
the  poplar  grove  is  a  mine  of  ruins.  The  porphyry  pil- 
lars, the  statues,  the  tablets,  the  exquisite  friezes,  the 
palimpsests,  the  bas-reliefs, —  Time  and  the  Turks 
have  spared  a  few  of  these.  And  when  the  German 
Emperor  came,  Abd'ul-Hamid  blinked,  and  the  Ber- 
lin Museum  is  now  the  richer  for  it. 

Of  the  Temple  of  Jupiter,  however,  only  six  stand- 
ing columns  remain;  of  the  Temple  of  Bacchus  only 
the  god  and  the  Bacchantes  are  missing.     And  why 
was  the  one  destroyed,  the  other  preserved,  only  the 
[14] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

six  columns,  had  they  a  tongue,  could  tell.  Indeed, 
how  many  blustering  vandals  have  they  conquered, 
how  many  savage  attacks  have  they  resisted,  what 
wonders  and  what  orgies  have  they  beheld!  These 
six  giants  of  antiquity,  looking  over  Anti-Lebanon 
in  the  East,  and  down  upon  the  meandering  Leontes 
in  the  South,  and  across  the  Syrian  steppes  in  the 
North,  still  hold  their  own  against  Time  and  the 
Elements.  They  are  the  dominating  feature  of  the 
ruins;  they  tower  above  them  as  the  Acropolis  towers 
above  the  surrounding  poplars.  And  around  their 
base,  and  through  the  fissures,  flows  the  perennial  grace 
of  the  seasons.  The  sun  pays  tribute  to  them  in  gold ; 
the  rain,  in  mosses  and  ferns;  the  Spring,  in 
lupine  flowers.  And  the  swallows,  nesting  in  the 
portico  of  the  Temple  of  Bacchus,  above  the  curious 
frieze  of  egg-decoration, —  as  curious,  too,  their  art  of 
egg-making, —  pour  around  the  colossal  columns  their 
silvery  notes.  Surely,  these  swallows  and  ferns  and 
lupine  flowers  are  more  ancient  than  the  Acropolis, 
And  the  marvels  of  extinct  nations  can  not  hold  a 
candle  to  the  marvels  of  Nature. 

Here,  under  the  decaying  beauty  of  Roman  art, 
lies  buried  the  monumental  boldness  of  the  Phoenicians, 
or  of  a  race  of  giants  whose  extinction  even  Homer 
deplores,  and  whose  name  even  the  Phoenicians  could 
not  decipher.  For  might  they  not,  too,  have  stood 
here  wondering,  guessing,  even  as  we  moderns  guess 
and  wonder?  Might  not  the  Phoenicians  have  asked 
the  same  questions  that  we  ask  .to-day:  Who  were  the 
builders?  and  with  what  tools?  In  one  of  the  walls 
[15] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

of  the  Acropolis  are  stones  which  a  hundred  brick- 
layers can  not  raise  an  inch  from  the  ground;  and 
among  the  ruins  of  the  Temple  of  Zeus  are  porphyry 
pillars,  monoliths,  which  fifty  horses  could  barely 
move,  and  the  quarry  of  which  is  beyond  the  Syrian 
desert.     There,  now,  solve  the  problem  for  yourself. 

Hidden  in  the  grove  of  silver-tufted  poplars  is  the 
little  Temple  of  Venus,  doomed  to  keep  company  with 
a  Mosque.  But  it  is  a  joy  to  stand  on  the  bridge 
above  the  stream  that  flows  between  them,  and  listen 
to  the  muazzen  in  the  minaret  and  the  bulbuls  in  the 
Temple.  Mohammad  calling  to  Venus,  Venus  calling 
to  Mohammad  —  what  a  romance !  We  leave  the 
subject  to  the  poet  that  wants  it.  Another  Laus 
Veneris  to  another  Swinburne  might  suggest  Itself. 

An  Arab  Prophet  with  the  goddess,  this  time  —  but 
the  River  flows  between  the  Temple  and  the  Mosque. 
In  the  city,  life  is  one  such  picturesque  languid  stream. 
The  shop-keepers  sit  on  their  rugs  in  their  stalls,  count- 
ing their  beads,  smoking  their  narghilahs,  waiting  in- 
differently for  Allah's  bounties.  And  the  hawkers 
shuffle  along  crying  their  wares  in  beautiful  poetic 
illusions, —  the  flower-seller  singing,  "  Reconcile  your 
mother-in-law!  Perfume  your  spirit!  Buy  a  jasmine 
for  your  soul !  "  the  seller  of  loaves,  his  tray  on  his 
head,  his  arms  swinging  to  a  measured  step,  intoning 
in  pious  thankfulness,  "  O  thou  Eternal,  O  thou 
Bountiful !  "  The  sakka  of  licorice-juice,  clicking  his 
brass  cups  calls  out  to  the  thirsty  one,  "  Come,  drink 
and  live!  Come,  drink  and  live!  "  And  ere  you  ex- 
claim, How  quaint!  How  picturesque!  a  train  of 
[i6] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

laden  camels  drives  you  to  the  wall,  rudely  shaking 
your  illusion.  And  the  mules  and  donkeys,  tottering 
under  their  heavy  burdens,  upsetting  a  tray  of  sw^eet- 
meats  here,  a  counter  of  spices  there,  must  share  the 
narrow  street  with  you  and  compel  you  to  move 
along  slowly,  languidly  like  themselves.  They  seem 
to  take  Time  by  the  sleeve  and  say  to  it,  "  What's 
your  hurry?  "  "  These  donkeys,"  Shakib  writes,  quot- 
ing Khalid,  "  can  teach  the  strenuous  Europeans  and 
hustling  Americans  a  lesson." 

In  the  City  Square,  as  we  issue  from  the  congested 
windings  of  the  Bazaar,  we  are  greeted  by  one  of 
those  scrub  monuments  that  are  found  in  almost  every 
city  of  the  Ottoman  Empire.  And  in  most  cases, 
they  are  erected  to  commemorate  the  benevolence  and 
public  zeal  of  some  wali  or  pasha  who  must  have  made 
a  handsome  fortune  in  the  promotion  of  a  public  enter- 
prise. Be  this  as  it  may.  It  is  not  our  business  here  to 
probe  the  corruption  of  any  particular  Government. 
But  we  observe  that  this  miserable  botch  of  a  monu- 
ment is  to  the  ruins  of  the  Acropolis,  what  this  modem 
absolutism,  this  effete  Turkey  is  to  the  magnificent 
tyrannies  of  yore.  Indeed,  nothing  is  duller,  more 
stupid,  more  prosaic  than  a  modern  absolutism  as 
compared  with  an  ancient  one.  But  why  concern 
ourselves  with  like  comparisons?  The  world  is  better 
to-day  in  spite  of  its  public  monuments.  These  little 
flights  or  frights  in  marble  are  as  snug  in  their  little 
squares,  in  front  of  their  little  halls,  as  are  the  ma- 
jestic ruins  in  their  poplar  groves.  In  both  Instances, 
Nature  and  Circumstance  have  harmonised  between 
[17] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

the  subject  and  the  background.  Come  along.  And 
let  the  rhymsters  chisel  on  the  monument  whatever 
they  like  about  sculptures  and  the  wali.  To  condemn 
in  this  case  is  to  praise. 

We  issue  from  the  Square  into  the  drive  leading 
to  the  spring  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain.  On  the 
meadows  near  the  stream,  is  always  to  be  found  a 
group  of  Baalbekians  bibbing  arak  and  swaying  lan- 
guidly to  the  mellow  strains  of  the  lute  and  the  monot- 
onous melancholy  of  Arabic  song.  Among  such,  one 
occasionally  meets  with  a  native  who,  failing  as  pedler 
or  merchant  in  America,  returns  to  his  native  town, 
and,  utilising  the  chips  of  English  he  picked  up  in  the 
streets  of  the  New-World  cities,  becomes  a  dragoman 
and  guide  to  English  and  American  tourists. 

Now,  under  this  sky,  between  Anti-Libanus  rising 
near  the  spring,  Rasulain,  and  the  Acropolis  towering 
above  the  poplars,  around  these  majestic  ruins,  amidst 
these  fascinating  scenes  of  Nature,  Khalid  spent  the 
halcyon  days  of  his  boyhood.  Here  he  trolled  his  fa- 
vourite ditties  beating  the  hoof  behind  his  donkey.  For 
he  preferred  to  be  a  donkey-boy  than  to  be  called  a 
donkey  at  school.  The  pedagogue  with  his  drivel  and 
discipline,  he  could  not  learn  to  love.  The  company  of 
muleteers  was  much  more  to  his  liking.  The  open 
air  was  his  school;  and  everything  that  riots  and  re- 
joices in  the  open  air,  he  loved.  Bulbuls  and  beetles 
and  butterflies,  oxen  and  donkeys  and  mules, —  these 
were  his  playmates  and  friends.  And  when  he  becomes 
a  muleteer,  he  reaches  in  his  first  venture,  we  are  told, 
the  top  round  of  the  ladder.  This  progressive  scale 
[i8] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

in  his  trading,  we  observe.  Husbanding  his  re- 
sources, he  was  soon  after,  by  selling  his  donkey, 
able  to  buy  a  sumpter-mule ;  a  year  later  he  sells  his 
mule  and  buys  a  camel ;  and  finally  he  sells  the  camel 
and  buys  a  fine  Arab  mare,  which  he  gives  to  a  tourist 
for  a  hundred  pieces  of  English  gold.  This  is  what 
is  called  success.  And  with  the  tangible  symbol  of  it, 
the  price  of  his  mare,  he  emigrates  to  America.  But 
that  is  to  come. 

Let  us  now  turn  our  "  stereopticon  on  the  screen 
of  reminiscence,"  using  the  pictures  furnished  by  Sha- 
kib.  But  before  they  can  be  used  to  advantage,  they 
must  undergo  a  process  of  retroussage.  Many  of  the 
lines  need  be  softened,  some  of  the  shades  modified, 
and  not  a  few  of  the  etchings,  absolutely  worthless,  we 
consign  to  the  flames.  Who  of  us,  for  instance,  was 
not  feruled  and  bastinadoed  by  the  town  peda- 
gogue? Who  did  not  run  away  from  school,  whim- 
pering, snivelling,  and  cursing  in  his  heart  and  in  his 
sleep  the  black-board  and  the  horn-book?  Nor  can 
we  see  the  significance  of  the  fact  that  Khalid  once 
smashed  the  icon  of  the  Holy  Virgin  for  whetting  not 
his  wits,  for  hearing  not  his  prayers.  It  may  be  he 
was  learning  then  the  use  of  the  sling,  and  instead 
of  killing  his  neighbour's  laying-hen,  he  broke  the  sacred 
ef!igy.  No,  we  are  not  warranted  to  draw  from  these 
trivialities  the  grand  results  which  send  Shakib  in 
ecstasies  about  his  Master's  genius.  Nor  do  we  for  a 
moment  believe  that  the  waywardness  of  a  genius  or 
a  prophet  in  boyhood  is  always  a  significant  adum- 
bration. Shakespeare  started  as  a  deer-poacher,  and 
[19] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

Rousseau  as  a  thief.  Yet,  neither  the  one  nor  the 
other,  as  far  as  we  know,  was  a  plagiarist.  This, 
however,  does  not  disprove  the  contrary  proposition, 
that  he  who  begins  as  a  thief  or  an  iconoclast  is  likely 
to  end  as  such.  But  the  actuating  motive  has  nothing 
to  do  with  what  we,  in  our  retrospective  analysis,  are 
pleased  to  prove.  Not  so  far  forth  are  we  willing  to 
piddle  among  the  knicknacks  of  Shakib's  Histeire  In- 
time  of  his  Master. 

Furthermore,  how  can  we  interest  ourselves  in  his 
fiction  of  history  concerning  Baalbek?  What  have 
we  to  do  with  the  fact  or  fable  that  Seth  the  Prophet 
lived  in  this  City ;  that  Noah  is  buried  in  its  vicinity ; 
that  Solomon  built  the  Temple  of  the  Sun  for  the 
Queen  of  Sheba;  that  this  Prince  and  Poet  used  to 
lunch  in  Baalbek  and  dine  at  Istachre  in  Afghanistan; 
that  the  chariot  of  Nimrod  drawn  by  four  phoenixes 
from  the  Tower  of  Babel,  lighted  on  Mt.  Hermon 
to  give  said  Nimrod  a  chance  to  rebuild  the  said  Tem- 
ple of  the  Sun?  How  can  we  bring  any  of  these 
fascinating  fables  to  bear  upon  our  subject?  It  is 
neverthelesss  significant  to  remark  that  the  City  of 
Baal,  from  the  Phoenicians  and  Moabites  down  to  the 
Arabs  and  Turks,  has  ever  been  noted  for  its  sanc- 
tuaries of  carnal  lust.  The  higher  religion,  too, 
found  good  soil  here ;  for  Baalbek  gave  the  world  many 
a  saint  and  martyr  along  with  its  harlots  and  poets 
and  philosophers.  St.  Minius,  St.  Cyril  and  St.  Theo- 
dosius,  are  the  foremost  among  its  holy  children;  Ste. 
Odicksyia,  a  Magdalene,  is  one  of  its  noted  daughters. 
These  were  as  famous  in  their  days  as  Ashtarout  or 
[20] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

Jupiter-Ammon.  As  famous  too  is  Al-Iman  uI-Ou- 
zaai  the  scholar;  al-Makrizi  the  historian;  Kallinichus 
the  chemist,  who  invented  the  Greek  fire;  Kosta  ibn 
Luka,  a  doctor  and  philosopher,  who  wrote  among 
much  miscellaneous  rubbish  a  treaty  entitled,  On  the 
Difference  Between  the  Mind  and  the  Soul;  and 
finally  the  Muazzen  of  Baalbek  to  whom  "  even  the 
beasts  would  stop  to  listen."  Ay,  Shakib  relates 
quoting  al-Makrizi,  who  in  his  turn  relates,  quoting 
one  of  the  octogenarian  Drivellers,  Muhaddetheen 
(these  men  are  the  chief  sources  of  Arabic  History) 
that  he  was  told  by  an  eye  and  ear  witness  that 
when  this  celebrated  Muazzen  was  once  calling  the 
Faithful  to  prayer,  the  camels  at  the  creek  craned  their 
necks  to  listen  to  the  sonorous  music  of  his  voice.  And 
such  was  their  delight  that  they  forgot  they  were 
thirsty.  This,  by  the  way  of  a  specimen  of  the 
Muhaddetheen.  Now,  about  these  historical  worthies 
of  Baalbek,  whom  we  have  but  named,  Shakib  writes 
whole  pages,  and  concludes  —  and  here  is  the  point  — 
that  Khalid  might  be  a  descendant  of  any  or  all  of 
them!  For  in  him,  our  Scribe  seriously  believes,  are 
lusty  strains  of  many  varied  and  opposing  humours. 
And  although  he  had  not  yet  seen  the  sea,  he  longed 
when  a  boy  for  a  long  sea  voyage,  and  he  would  sail 
little  paper  boats  down  the  stream  to  prove  the  fact. 
In  truth,  that  is  what  Shakib  would  prove.  The  devil 
and  such  logic  had  a  charm  for  us  once,  but  no  more. 

Here  is  another  bubble  of  retrospective  analysis  to 
which  we  apply  the  needle.     It  is  asserted  as  a  basis 
for  another  astounding  deduction  that  Khalid  used  to 
[21] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

sleep  in  the  ruined  Temple  of  Zeus.  As  if  ruined 
temples  had  anything  to  do  with  the  formation  or  de- 
formation of  the  brain-cells  or  the  soul-afflatus!  The 
devil  and  such  logic,  we  repeat,  had  once  a  charm  for 
us.  But  this,  in  brief,  is  how  it  came  about.  Khalid 
hated  the  pedagogue  to  whom  he  had  to  pay  a  visit  of 
courtesy  every  day,  and  loved  his  cousin  Najma  whom 
he  was  not  permitted  to  see.  And  when  he  runs  away 
from  the  bastinado,  breaking  in  revenge  the  icon  of  the 
Holy  Virgin,  his  father  turns  him  away  from  home. 
Complaining  not,  whimpering  not,  he  goes.  And  hear- 
ing the  bulbuls  calling  in  the  direction  of  Najma's 
house  that  evening,  he  repairs  thither.  But  the  crabbed, 
cruel  uncle  turns  him  away  also,  and  bolts  the  door. 
Whereupon  Khalid,  who  was  then  in  the  first  of  his 
teens,  takes  a  big  scabrous  rock  and  sends  it  flying 
against  that  door.  The  crabbed  uncle  rushes  out, 
blustering,  cursing;  the  nephew  takes  up  another  of 
those  scabrous  missiles  and  sends  it  whizzing  across  his 
shoulder.  The  second  one  brushes  his  ear.  The  third 
sends  the  blood  from  his  temple.  And  this,  while 
beating  a  retreat  and  cursing  his  father  and  his  uncle 
and  their  ancestors  back  to  fifty  generations.  He  is 
now  safe  in  the  poplar  grove,  and  his  uncle  gives  up 
the  charge.  With  a  broken  noddle  he  returns  home, 
and  Khalid  with  a  broken  heart  wends  his  way  to  the 
Acropolis,  the  only  shelter  in  sight.  In  relating  this 
story,  Shakib  mentions  "  the  horrible  old  moon,  who 
was  wickedly  smiling  over  the  town  that  night."  A 
broken  icon,  a  broken  door,  a  broken  pate, —  a  big 
price  this,  the  crabbed  uncle  and  the  cruel  father  had 
[22] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

to  pay  for  thwarting  the  will  of  little  Khalid.  "  But 
he  entered  the  Acropolis  a  conqueror,"  says  our 
Scribe;  "he  won  the  battle."  And  he  slept  in  the 
temple,  in  the  portico  thereof,  as  sound  as  a  muleteer. 
And  the  swallows  in  the  niches  above  heard  him  sleep. 

In  the  morning  he  girds  his  loins  with  a  firm  resolu- 
tion. No  longer  will  he  darken  his  father's  door. 
He  becomes  a  muleteer  and  accomplishes  the  success  of 
which  we  have  spoken.  His  first  beau  ideal  was  to 
own  the  best  horse  in  Baalbek;  and  to  be  able  to  ride 
to  the  camp  of  the  Arabs  and  be  mistaken  for  one  of 
them,  was  his  first  great  ambition.  Which  he  realises 
sooner  than  he  thought  he  would.  For  thrift,  grit 
and  perseverance,  are  a  few  of  the  rough  grains  in  his 
character.  But  no  sooner  he  is  possessed  of  his  ideal 
than  he  begins  to  loosen  his  hold  upon  it.  He  sold 
his  mare  to  the  tourist,  and  was  glad  he  did  not  attain 
the  same  success  in  his  first  love.  For  he  loved  his 
mare,  and  he  could  not  have  loved  his  cousin  Najma 
more.  "  The  realisation  is  a  terrible  thing,"  writes 
our  Scribe,  quoting  his  Master.  But  when  this  fine 
piece  of  wisdom  was  uttered,  whether  when  he  was 
sailing  paper  boats  in  Baalbek,  or  unfurling  his  sails  in 
New  York,  we  can  not  say. 

And  now,  warming  himself  on  the  fire  of  his  first 
ideal,  Khalid  will  seek  the  shore  and  launch  into  un- 
known seas  towards  unknown  lands.  From  the  City 
of  Baal  to  the  City  of  Demiurgic  Dollar  is  not  in  fact 
a  far  cry.  It  has  been  remarked  that  he  always 
dreamt  of  adventures,  of  long  journeys  across  the 
desert  or  across  the  sea.  He  never  was  satisfied  with 
[23] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

the  seen  horizon,  we  are  told,  no  matter  how  vast  and 
beautiful.  His  soul  always  yearned  for  what  was  be- 
yond, above  or  below,  the  visible  line.  And  had  not 
the  European  tourist  alienated  from  him  the  love  of 
his  mare  and  corrupted  his  heart  with  the  love  of  gold, 
we  might  have  heard  of  him  in  Mecca,  in  India,  or  in 
Dahomey.  But  Shakib  prevails  upon  him  to  turn  his 
face  toward  the  West.  One  day,  following  some 
tourists  to  the  Cedars,  they  behold  from  Dahr'ul- 
Qadhib  the  sun  setting  in  the  Mediterranean  and 
make  up  their  minds  to  follow  it  too.  "  For  the  sun- 
down," writes  Shakib,  "  was  more  appealing  to  us 
than  the  sunrise,  ay,  more  beautiful.  The  one  was  so 
near,  the  other  so  far  away.  Yes,  we  beheld  the  Hes- 
perian light  that  day,  and  praised  Allah.  It  was  the 
New  World's  bonfire  of  hospitality:  the  sun  called  to 
us,  and  we  obeyed." 


[24] 


CHAPTER  III 

VIA  DOLOROSA 

TN  their  baggy,  lapping  trousers  and  crimson  caps,  each 
carrying  a  bundle  and  a  rug  under  his  arm,  Shakib 
and  Khalid  are  smuggled  through  the  port  of  Beirut 
at  night,  and  safely  rowed  to  the  steamer.  Indeed, 
we  are  in  a  country  where  one  can  not  travel  without 
a  passport,  or  a  password,  or  a  little  pass-money. 
And  the  boatmen  and  officials  of  the  Ottoman  Em- 
pire can  better  read  a  gold  piece  than  a  passport.  So, 
Shakib  and  Khalid,  not  having  the  latter,  slip  in  a  few 
of  the  former,  and  are  smuggled  through.  One  more 
longing,  lingering  glance  behind,  and  the  dusky  peaks 
of  the  Lebanons,  beyond  which  their  native  City  of 
Baal  is  sleeping  in  peace,  recede  from  view.  On  the 
high  sea  of  hope  and  joy  they  sail;  "  under  the  Favo- 
nian  wind  of  enthusiasm,  on  the  friendly  billows  of 
boyish  dreams,"  they  roll.  Ay,  and  they  sing  for  joy. 
On  and  on,  to  the  gold-swept  shores  of  distant  lands, 
to  the  generous  cities  and  the  bounteous  fields  of  the 
West,  to  the  Paradise  of  the  World  —  to  America. 

We  need  not  dwell  too  much  with  our  Scribe,  on 
the  repulsive  details  of  the  story  of  the  voyage.  We 
ourselves  have  known  a  little  of  the  suffering  and 
misery  which  emigrants  must  undergo,  before  they 
reach  that  Western  Paradise  of  the  Oriental  imagina- 
[25] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

tion.  How  they  are  huddled  like  sheep  on  deck  from 
Beirut  to  Marseilles;  and  like  cattle  transported 
under  hatches  across  the  Atlantic;  and  bullied  and 
browbeaten  by  rough  disdainful  stewards;  and  made 
to  pay  for  a  leathery  gobbet  of  beef  and  a  slice  of 
black  flint-like  bread:  all  this  we  know.  But  that 
New  World  paradise  is  well  worth  these  passing  pri- 
vations. 

The  second  day  at  sea,  when  the  two  Baalbekian 
lads  are  snug  on  deck,  their  rugs  spread  out  not  far 
from  the  stalls  in  which  Syrian  cattle  are  shipped  to 
Egypt  and  Arab  horses  to  Europe  or  America,  they 
rummage  in  their  bags  —  and  behold,  a  treat !  Shakib 
takes  out  his  favourite  poet  Al-Mutanabbi,  and  Khalid, 
his  favourite  bottle,  the  choicest  of  the  Ksarah  distillery 
of  the  Jesuits.  For  this  whilom  donkey-boy  will  be- 
gin by  drinking  the  wine  of  these  good  Fathers  and 
then  their  —  blood!  His  lute  is  also  with  him;  and 
he  will  continue  to  practise  the  few  lessons  which  the 
bulbuls  of  the  poplar  groves  have  taught  him.  No,  he 
cares  not  for  books.  And  so,  he  uncorks  the  bottle, 
hands  It  to  Shakib  his  senior,  then  takes  a  nip  him- 
self, and,  thrumming  his  lute  strings,  trolls  a  few 
doleful  pieces  of  Arabic  song.  "  In  these,"  he  would 
say  to  Shakib,  pointing  to  the  bottle  and  the  lute,  "  is 
real  poetry,  and  not  in  that  book  with  which  you 
would  kill  me.  "  And  Shakib,  In  stingless  sarcasm, 
would  insist  that  the  music  in  Al-Mutanabbl's  lines 
is  just  a  little  more  musical  than  Khalid's  thrumming. 
They  quarrel  about  this.  And  In  justice  to  both,  we 
give  the  following  from  the  Histoire  Intime. 
[26] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

"When  we  left  our  native  land,"  Shaki'b  writes, 
"  my  literary  bent  was  not  shared  in  the  least  by 
Khalid.  I  had  gone  through  the  higher  studies  which, 
in  our  hedge-schools  and  clerical  institutions,  do  not 
reach  a  very  remarkable  height.  Enough  of  French 
to  understand  the  authors  tabooed  by  our  Jesuit  pro- 
fessors,—  the  Voltaires,  the  Rousseaus,  the  Diderots; 
enough  of  Arabic  to  enable  one  to  parse  and  analyse 
the  verse  of  Al-Mutanabbi ;  enough  of  Church  History 
to  show  us,  not  how  the  Church  wielded  the  sword 
of  persecution,  but  how  she  was  persecuted  herself  by 
the  pagans  and  barbarians  of  the  earth ; —  of  these 
and  such  like  consists  the  edifying  curriculum.  Now, 
of  this  high  phase  of  education,  Khalid  was  thoroughly 
immune.  But  his  intuitive  sagacity  was  often  remark- 
able, and  his  humour,  sweet  and  pathetic.  Once  when 
I  was  reading  aloud  some  of  the  Homeric  effusions  of 
Al-Mutanabbi,  he  said  to  me,  as  he  was  playing  his 
lute,  '  In  the  heart  of  this,'  pointing  to  the  lute,  '  and 
in  the  heart  of  me,  there  be  more  poetry  than  in  that 
book  with  which  you  would  kill  me.'  And  one  day, 
after  wandering  clandestinely  through  the  steamer,  he 
comes  to  me  with  a  gesture  of  surprise  and  this:  *  Do 
you  know,  there  are  passengers  who  sleep  in  bunks  be- 
low, over  and  across  each  other?  I  saw  them, 
billah!  And  I  was  told  they  pay  more  than  we  do 
for  such  a  low  passage  —  the  fools!  Think  on  it.  I 
peeped  into  a  little  room,  a  dingy,  smelling  box,  which 
had  in  it  six  berths  placed  across  and  above  each  other 
like  the  shelves  of  the  reed  manchons  we  build  for  our 
silk-worms  at  home.  I  wouldn't  sleep  in  one  of  them, 
[27] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

billah!  even  though  they  bribe  me.  This  bovine  fra- 
grance, the  sight  of  these  fine  horses,  the  rioting  of  the 
vv^ind  above  us,  should  make  us  forget  the  bru- 
tality of  the  stewards.  Indeed,  I  am  as  content,  as 
comfortable  here,  as  are  their  Excellencies  in  what  is 
called  the  Salon.  Surely,  we  are  above  them  —  at 
least,  in  the  night.  What  matters  it,  then,  if  ours  is 
called  the  Fourth  Class  and  theirs  the  Primo. 
Wherever  one  is  happy,  Shakib,  there  is  the  Primo.'  " 

But  this  happy  humour  is  assailed  at  Marseilles.  His 
placidity  and  stolid  indifference  are  rudely  shaken  by 
the  sharpers,  who  differ  only  from  the  boatmen  of  Bei- 
rut in  that  they  wear  pantaloons  and  intersperse  their 
Arabic  with  a  jargon  of  French.  These  brokers,  like 
rapacious  bats,  hover  around  the  emigrant  and  before 
his  purse  is  opened  for  the  fourth  time,  the  trick  is 
done.  And  with  what  ceremony,  you  shall  see. 
From  the  steamer  the  emigrant  is  led  to  a  dealer  in 
frippery,  where  he  is  required  to  doff  his  baggy 
trousers  and  crimson  cap,  and  put  on  a  suit  of  linsey- 
woolsey  and  a  hat  of  hispid  felt:  end  of  First  Act; 
open  the  purse.  From  the  dealer  of  frippery,  spick 
and  span  from  top  to  toe,  he  is  taken  to  the  hostelry, 
where  he  is  detained  a  fortnight,  sometimes  a 
month,  on  the  pretext  of  having  to  wait  for  the  best 
steamer:  end  of  Second  Act;  open  the  purse. 
From  the  hostelry  at  last  to  the  steamship  agent, 
where  they  secure  for  him  a  third-class  passage  on  a 
fourth-class  ship  across  the  Atlantic:  end  of  Third  Act; 
open  the  purse.  And  now  that  the  purse  is  almost 
empty,  the  poor  emigrant  is  permitted  to  leave.  They 
[28] 


IN     THE     EXCHANGE 

send  him  to  New  York  with  much  gratitude  in  his 
heart  and  a  little  trachoma  in  his  eyes.  The  result  be- 
ing that  a  month  later  they  have  to  look  into  such  eyes 
again.  But  the  purse  of  the  distressed  emigrant  now 
being  empty, —  empty  as  his  hopes  and  dreams, — -the 
rapacious  bats  hover  not  around  him,  and  the  door  of 
the  verminous  hostelry  is  shut  in  his  face.  He  is  left 
to  starve  on  the  western  shore  of  the  Mediterranean. 

Ay,  even  the  droll  humour  and  stolidity  of  Khalid, 
are  shaken,  aroused,  by  the  ghoulish  greed,  the  fell  in- 
humanity of  these  sharpers.  And  Shakib  from  his 
cage  of  fancy  lets  loose  upon  them  his  hyenas  of  satire. 
In  a  squib  describing  the  bats  and  the  voyage  he  says: 
"  The  voyage  to  America  is  the  Via  Dolorosa  of  the 
emigrant;  and  the  Port  of  Beirut,  the  verminous 
hostelries  of  Marseilles,  the  Island  of  Ellis  in  Nev/ 
York,  are  the  three  stations  thereof.  And  if  your  hopes 
are  not  crucified  at  the  third  and  last  station,  you  pass 
into  the  Paradise  of  your  dreams.  If  they  are  cruci- 
fied, alas!  The  gates  of  the  said  Paradise  will  be  shut 
against  you ;  the  doors  of  the  hostelries  will  be  slammed 
in  your  face;  and  with  a  consolation  and  a  vengeance 
you  will  throw  yourself  at  the  feet  of  the  sea  in  whose 
bosom  some  charitable  Jonah  will  carry  you  to  your 
native  strands.  " 

And  when  the  emigrant  has  a  surplus  of  gold,  when 
his  capital  is  such  as  can  not  be  dissipated  on  a  suit  of 
shoddy,  a  fortnight's  lodging,  and  a  passage  across  the 
Atlantic,  the  ingenious  ones  proceed  with  the  Fourth 
Act  of  Open  Thy  Purse.  "  Instead  of  starting  in 
New  York  as  a  peddler,"  they  say,  unfolding  before 
[29] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

him  one  of  their  alluring  schemes,  "  why  not  do  so 
as  a  merchant  ?  "  And  the  emigrant  opens  his  purse 
for  the  fourth  time  in  the  office  of  some  French  man- 
ufacturer, where  he  purchases  a  few  boxes  of  trinketry, 
—  scapulars,  prayer-beads,  crosses,  jewelry,  gewgaws, 
and  such  like, —  all  said  to  be  made  in  the  Holy 
Land.  These  he  brings  over  with  him  as  his  stock  in 
trade. 

Now,  Khalid  and  Shakib,  after  passing  a  fortnight 
in  Marseilles,  and  going  through  the  Fourth  Act  of 
the  Sorry  Show,  find  their  dignity  as  merchants  rudely 
crushed  beneath  the  hatches  of  the  Atlantic  steamer. 
For  here,  even  the  pleasure  of  sleeping  on  deck  is 
denied  them.  The  Atlantic  Ocean  would  not  permit 
of  it.  Indeed,  everybody  has  to  slide  into  their  stivy 
bunks  to  save  themselves  from  its  rising  wrath.  A 
fortnight  of  such  unutterable  misery  is  quite  support- 
able, however,  if  one  continues  to  cherish  the  Para- 
dise already  mentioned.  But  in  this  dark,  dingy 
smelling  hole  of  the  steerage,  even  the  poets  cease  to 
dream.  The  boatmen  of  Beirut  and  the  sharpers  of 
Marseilles  we  could  forget;  but  in  this  grave  among 
a  hundred  and  more  of  its  kind,  set  over  and  across 
each  other,  neither  the  lute  nor  the  little  that  remained 
in  that  Ksarah  bottle,  could  bring  us  any  solace. 

We  are  told  that  Khalid  took  up  his  lute  but  once 
throughout  the  voyage.  And  this  when  they  were 
permitted  one  night  to  sleep  on  deck.  We  are  also 
informed  that  Khalid  had  a  remarkable  dream,  which, 
to  our  Scribe  at  least,  is  not  meaningless.  And  who 
of  us,  thou  silly  Scribe,  did  not  in  his  boyhood  tell  his 
[30] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

dreams  to  his  mother,  who  would  turn  them  In  her 
interpretation  inside  out?  But  Khalid,  we  are 
assured,  continued  to  cherish  the  belief,  even  in 
his  riper  days,  that  when  you  dream  you  are  in  Jan- 
nat,  for  instance,  you  must  be  prepared  to  go  through 
Juhannam  the  following  day.  A  method  of  interpre- 
tation as  ancient  as  Joseph,  to  be  sure.  But  we  quote 
the  dream  to  show  that  Khalid  should  not  have  fol- 
lowed the  setting  sun.  He  should  have  turned  his 
face  toward  the  desert. 

They  slept  on  deck  that  night.  They  drank  the 
wine  of  the  Jesuits,  repeated,  to  the  mellow  strains  of 
the  lute,  the  song  of  the  bulbuls,  intoned  the  verses  of 
Al-Mutanabbi,  and,  wrapping  themselves  in  their 
rugs,  fell  asleep.  But  in  the  morning  they  were 
rudely  jostled  from  their  dreams  by  a  spurt  from  the 
hose  of  the  sailors  washing  the  deck.  Complaining 
not,  they  straggle  down  to  their  bunks  to  change  their 
clothes.  And  Khalid,  as  he  is  doing  this,  implores 
Shakib  not  to  mention  to  him  any  more  that  New- 
World  paradise.  "  For  I  have  dreamt  last  night," 
he  continues,  "  that,  in  the  multicoloured  robes  of 
an  Arab  amir,  on  a  caparisoned  dromedary,  at  the 
head  of  an  immense  multitude  of  people,  I  was  riding 
through  the  desert.  Whereto  and  wherefrom,  I  know 
not.  But  those  who  followed  me  seemed  to  know; 
for  they  cried,  '  Long  have  we  waited  for  thee,  now 
we  shall  enter  in  peace.'  And  at  every  oasis  we 
passed,  the  people  came  to  the  gate  to  meet  us,  and, 
prostrating  themselves  before  me,  kissed  the  fringe  of 
my  garment.  Even  the  women  would  touch  my  boots 
[31] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

and  kiss  their  hands,  exclaiming,  '  Allahu  akhar!' 
And  the  palm  trees,  billah!  I  could  see  bending 
towards  us  that  we  might  eat  of  their  fruits,  and  the 
springs  seemed  to  flow  with  us  into  the  desert  that  we 
might  never  thirst.  Ay,  thus  in  triumph  we  marched 
from  one  camp  to  another,  from  one  oasis  to  the  next, 
until  we  reached  the  City  on  the  Hills  of  the  Cedar 
Groves.  Outside  the  gate,  we  were  met  by  the  most 
beautiful  of  its  tawny  women,  and  four  of  these  sur- 
rounded my  camel  and  took  the  reins  from  my  hand. 
I  was  then  escorted  through  the  gates,  into  the  City, 
up  to  the  citadel,  where  I  was  awaited  by  their  Prin- 
cess. And  she,  taking  a  necklace  of  cowries  from  a  bag 
that  hung  on  her  breast,  placed  it  on  my  head,  say- , 
ing,  '  I  crown  thee  King  of  — '  But  I  could  not 
hear  the  rest,  which  was  drowned  by  the  cheering  of 
the  multitudes.  And  the  cheering,  O  Shakib,  was 
drowned  by  the  hose  of  the  sailors.  Oh,  that  hose!  Is 
it  not  made  in  the  paradise  you  harp  upon,  the  para- 
dise we  are  coming  to?  Never,  therefore,  mention 
it  to  me  more." 

This  is  the  dream,  at  once  simple  and  symbolic, 
which  begins  to  worry  Khalid.  "  For  in  the  evening 
of  the  day  he  related  it  to  me,"  writes  Shakib,  "  I 
found  him  sitting  on  the  edge  of  his  bunk  brooding 
over  I  know  not  what.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had 
the  blues.  Nay,  it  was  the  first  time  he  looked  pen- 
sive and  profound.  And  upon  asking  him  the  reason 
for  this,  he  said,  *  I  am  thinking  of  the  paper-boats 
which  I  used  to  sail  down  the  stream  in  Baalbek,  and 
that  makes  me  sad.' 

[32] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

How  strange!  And  yet,  this  first  event  recorded  by 
our  Scribe,  in  which  Khalid  is  seen  struggling  with 
the  mysterious  and  unknown,  is  most  significant. 
Another  instance,  showing  a  latent  phase,  hitherto  dor- 
mant, in  his  character,  we  note.  Among  the  steerage 
passengers  is  a  Syrian  girl  who  much  resembles  his 
cousin  Najma.  She  was  sea-sick  throughout  the  voy- 
age, and  when  she  comes  out  to  breathe  of  the  fresh 
air,  a  few  hours  before  they  enter  the  harbour  of  New 
York,  Khalid  sees  her,  and  Shakib  swears  that  he  saw 
a  tear  in  Khalid's  eye  as  he  stood  there  gazing  upon 
her.  Poor  Khalid !  For  though  we  are  approaching 
the  last  station  of  the  Via  Dolorosa,  though  we  are 
Hearing  the  enchanted  domes  of  the  wonder-working, 
wealth-worshipping  City,  he  is  inexplicably  sad. 

And  Shakib,  directly  after  swearing  that  he  saw  a 
tear  in  his  eye,  writes  the  following:  "  Up  to  this  time 
I  observed  in  my  friend  only  the  dominating  traits  of 
a  hard-headed,  hard-hearted  boy,  stubborn,  impetuous, 
intractable.  But  from  the  time  he  related  to  me  his 
dream,  a  change  in  his  character  was  become  manifest. 
In  fact  a  new  phase  was  being  gradually  unfolded. 
Three  things  I  must  emphasise  in  this  connection: 
namely,  the  first  dream  he  dreamt  in  a  foreign  land,  the 
first  time  he  looked  pensive  and  profound,  and  the  first 
tear  he  shed  before  we  entered  New  York.  These  are 
keys  to  the  secret  chamber  of  one's  soul. " 

And  now,  that  the  doors,  by  virtue  of  our  Scribe's 
open-sesames,  are  thrown  open,  we  enter,  bismillah. 


[33] 


CHAPTER  IV 

ON  THE  WHARF  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

"VTOT  in  our  make-up,  to  be  sure, —  not  in  the  pose 
which  is  preceded  by  the  tantaras  of  a  trumpet, 
—  do  the  essential  traits  in  our  character  first  reveal 
themselves.  But  truly  in  the  little  things  the  real  self 
is  exteriorised.  Shakib  observes  closely  the  rapid 
changes  in  his  co-adventurer's  humour,  the  shadowy 
traits  which  at  that  time  he  little  understood.  And 
now,  by  applying  his  palm  to  his  front,  he  illumines 
those  chambers  of  which  he  speaks,  and  also  the  niches 
therein.  He  helps  us  to  understand  the  insignificant 
points  which  mark  the  rapid  undercurrents  of  the  seem- 
ingly sluggish  soul  of  Khalid.  Not  in  vain,  therefore, 
does  he  crystallise  for  us  that  first  tear  he  shed  in  the 
harbour  of  Manhattan.  But  his  gush  about  the  re- 
condite beauty  of  this  pearl  of  melancholy,  shall  not  be 
intended  upon  the  gustatory  nerves  of  the  Reader. 
This  then  we  note  —  his  description  of  New  York  har- 
bour. 

"  And  is  this  the  gate  of  Paradise,  "  he  asks,  "  or 
the  port  of  some  subterrestrial  city  guarded  by  the 
Jinn?  What  a  marvel  of  enchantment  is  everything 
around  us!  What  manifestations  of  industrial 
strength,  what  monstrosities  of  wealth  and  power,  are 
here!  These  vessels  proudly  putting  to  sea;  these  ten- 
[34] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

ders  scurrying  to  meet  the  Atlantic  greyhound  which 
is  majestically  moving  up  the  bay;  these  barges  load- 
ing and  unloading  schooners  from  every  strand,  dis- 
tant and  near;  these  huge  lighters  carrying  even  rail- 
roads over  the  water;  these  fire-boats  scudding 
through  the  harbour  shrilling  their  sirens;  these  care- 
worn, grim,  strenuous  multitudes  ferried  across  from 
one  enchanted  shore  to  another;  these  giant  structures 
tickling  heaven's  sides;  these  cable  bridges,  spanning 
rivers,  uniting  cities;  and  this  superterrestrial  goddess, 
torch  in  hand  —  wake  up,  Khalid,  and  behold  these 
wonders.  Salaam,  this  enchanted  City!  There  is  the 
Brooklyn  Bridge,  and  here  is  the  Statue  of  Liberty 
which  people  speak  of,  and  which  are  as  famous  as 
the  Cedars  of  Lebanon." 

But  Khalid  is  as  impassive  as  the  bronze  goddess 
herself.  He  leans  over  the  rail,  his  hand  supporting 
his  cheek,  and  gazes  into  the  ooze.  The  stolidity  of 
his  expression  is  appalling.  With  his  mouth  open  as 
usual,  his  lips  relaxed,  his  tongue  sticking  out  through 
the  set  teeth, —  he  looks  as  if  his  head  were  in  a  noose. 
But  suddenly  he  braces  up,  runs  down  for  his  lute,  and 
begins  to  serenade  —  Greater  New  York  ? 

"  On  thee  be  Allah's  grace, 
Who    hath    the    well-loved    face  1 " 

No;  not  toward  this  City  does  his  heart  flap  its 
wings  of  song.  He  is  on  another  sea,  in  another  har- 
bour. Indeed,  what  are  these  wonders  as  compared 
with  those  of  the  City  of  Love?  The  Statue  of 
Eros  there  is  more  imposing  than  the  Statue  of 
[35] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

Liberty  here.  And  the  bridges  are  not  of  iron  and 
concrete,  but  of  rainbows  and  —  moonshine !  Indeed, 
both  these  lads  are  now  on  the  wharf  of  enchantment; 
the  one  on  the  palpable,  the  sensuous,  the  other  on  the 
impalpable  and  unseen.  But  both,  alas,  are  suddenly, 
but  temporarily,  disenchanted  as  they  are  jostled  out  of 
the  steamer  into  the  barge  which  brings  them  to  the 
Juhannam  of  Ellis  Island.  Here,  the  unhappy  chil- 
dren of  the  steerage  are  dumped  into  the  Bureau  of 
Emigration  as  —  such  stuff!  For  even  in  the  land  of 
equal  rights  and  freedom,  we  have  a  right  to  expect 
from  others  the  courtesy  and  decency  which  we  our- 
selves do  not  have  to  show,  or  do  not  know. 

These  are  sturdy  and  adventurous  foreigners  whom 
the  grumpy  officers  jostle  and  hustle  about.  For 
neither  poverty,  nor  oppression,  nor  both  together  can 
drive  a  man  out  of  his  country,  unless  the  soul  within 
him  awaken.  Indeed,  many  a  misventurous  cower- 
ing peasant  continues  to  live  on  bread  and  olives  in 
his  little  village,  chained  in  the  fear  of  dying  of  hun- 
ger in  a  foreign  land.  Only  the  brave  and  daring 
spirits  hearken  to  the  voice  of  discontent  within  them. 
They  give  themselves  up  to  the  higher  aspirations  of 
the  soul,  no  matter  how  limited  such  aspirations  might 
be,  regardless  of  the  dangers  and  hardship  of  a  long 
sea  voyage,  and  the  precariousness  of  their  plans  and 
hopes.  There  may  be  nothing  noble  in  renouncing 
one's  country,  in  abandoning  one's  home,  in  forsaking 
one's  people;  but  is  there  not  something  remarkable  in 
this  great  move  one  makes?  Whether  for  better  or 
for  worse,  does  not  the  emigrant  place  himself  above 
[36] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

his  country,  his  people  and  his  Government,  when  he 
turns  away  from  them,  when  he  goes  forth  propelled 
by  that  inner  self  which  demands  of  him  a  new  life? 

And  might  it  not  be  a  better,  a  cleaner,  a  higher 
life?  What  say  our  Masters  of  the  Island  of  Ellis? 
Are  not  these  straggling,  smelling,  downcast  emi- 
grants almost  as  clean  inwardly,  and  as  pure,  as  the 
grumpy  officers  who  harass  and  humiliate  them?  Is 
not  that  spirit  of  discontent  which  they  cherish,  and 
for  which  they  carry  the  cross,  so  to  speak,  across  the 
sea,  deserving  of  a  little  consideration,  a  little  civility, 
a  little  kindness? 

Even  louder  than  this  Shakib  cries  out,  while  Khalid 
open-mouthed  sucks  his  tongue.  Here  at  the  last  sta- 
tion, where  the  odours  of  disinfectants  are  worse  than 
the  stench  of  the  steerage,  they  await  behind  the  bars 
their  turn;  stived  with  Italian  and  Hungarian  fellow 
sufFerers,  uttering  such  whimpers  of  expectancy,  ex- 
changing such  gestures  of  hope.  Soon  they  shall  be 
brought  forward  to  be  examined  by  the  doctor  and  the 
interpreting  officer;  the  one  shall  pry  their  purses,  the 
other  their  eyes.  For  in  this  United  States  of 
America  we  want  clear-sighted  citizens  at  least.  And 
no  cold-purses,  if  the  matter  can  be  helped.  But 
neither  the  eyes,  alas,  nor  the  purses  of  our  two  emi- 
grants are  conformable  to  the  Law;  the  former  are 
filled  with  granulations  of  trachoma,  the  latter  have 
been  emptied  by  the  sharpers  of  Marseilles.  Which 
means  that  they  shall  be  detained  for  the  present;  and 
if  within  a  fortnight  nothing  turns  up  in  their  favour, 
they  shall  certainly  be  deported. 
[37] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

Trachoma!  a  little  granulation  on  the  inner  surface 
of  the  eyelids,  what  additional  misery  does  it  bring 
upon  the  poor  deported  emigrant?  We  are  asked  to 
shed  a  tear  for  him,  to  weep  with  him  over  his  blasted 
hopes,  his  strangled  aspirations,  his  estate  in  the  mother 
country  sold  or  mortgaged, —  in  either  case  lost, — 
and  his  seed  of  a  new  life  crushed  in  its  cotyledon  by 
the  physician  who  might  be  short-sighted  himself,  or 
even  blind.  But  the  law  must  be  enforced  for  the 
sake  of  the  clear-sighted  citizens  of  the  Republic.  We 
will  have  nothing  to  do  with  these  poor  blear-eyed  for- 
eigners. 

And  thus  our  grievous  Scribe  would  continue,  if  we 
did  not  exercise  the  prerogative  of  our  Editorial  Divan. 
Rather  let  us  pursue  our  narration.  Khalid  is  now  in 
the  hospital,  awaiting  further  development  in  his  case. 
But  in  Shakib's,  w^hose  eyes  are  far  gone  in  trachoma, 
the  decision  of  the  Board  of  Emigration  is  final,  irre- 
vokable.  And  so,  after  being  detained  a  week  in  the 
Emigration  pen,  the  unfortunate  Syrian  must  turn 
his  face  again  toward  the  East.  Not  out  into  the 
City,  but  out  upon  the  sea,  he  shall  be  turned  adrift. 
The  grumpy  officer  shall  grumpishly  enforce  the  de- 
cision of  the  Board  by  handing  our  Scribe  to  the  Cap- 
tain of  the  first  steamer  returning  to  Europe  —  if  our 
Scribe  can  be  found!  For  this  flyaway  son  of  a 
PhcEnician  did  not  seem  to  wait  for  the  decision  of  the 
polyglot  Judges  of  the  Emigration  Board. 

And  that  he  did  escape,  we  are  assured.  For  one 
morning  he  eludes  the  grumpy  officer,  and  sidles  out 
among  his  Italian  neighbours  who  were  permitted  to 
[38] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

land.  See  him  genuflecting  now,  to  kiss  the  curb- 
stone and  thank  Allah  that  he  is  free.  But  before  he 
can  enjoy  his  freedom,  before  he  can  sit  down  and 
chuckle  over  the  success  of  his  escapade,  he  must  be- 
think him  of  Khalid.  He  will  not  leave  him  to  the 
mercy  of  the  honourable  Agents  of  the  Law,  if  he  can 
help  it.  Trachoma,  he  knows,  is  a  hard  case  to  cure. 
And  in  ten  days,  under  the  care  of  the  doctors,  it 
might  become  worse.  Straightway,  therefore,  he  puts 
himself  to  the  dark  task.  A  few  visits  to  the  Hospital 
where  Khalid  is  detained  —  the  patients  in  those  days 
were  not  held  at  Ellis  Island  —  and  the  intrigue  is 
afoot.  On  the  third  or  fourth  visit,  we  can  not  make 
out  which,  a  note  in  Arabic  is  slipt  into  Khalid's 
pocket,  and  with  a  significant  Arabic  sign,  Shakib  takes 
himself  off. 

The  evening  of  that  very  day,  the  trachoma-af- 
flicted Syrian  was  absent  from  the  ward.  He  was 
carried  off  by  Iblis, —  the  porter  and  a  few  Green- 
backs assisting.  Yes,  even  Shakib,  who  knew  only 
a  few  English  monosyllables,  could  here  make  him- 
self understood.  For  money  is  one  of  the  two  uni- 
versal languages  of  the  world,  the  other  being  love. 
Indeed,  money  and  love  are  as  eloquent  in  Turkey  and 
Dahomey  as  they  are  in  Paris  or  New  York. 

And  here  we  reach  one  of  those  hedges  in  the 
Hisioire  Iniime  which  we  must  go  through  in  spite  of 
the  warning-signs.  Between  two  paragraphs,  to  be 
plain,  in  the  one  of  which  we  are  told  how  the  two 
Syrians  established  themselves  as  merchants  in  New 
York,  in  the  other,  how  and  wherefor  they  shouldered 

[39] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

the  peddling-box  and  took  to  the  road,  there  is  a 
crossed  paragraph  containing  a  most  significant  revela- 
tion. It  seems  that  after  giving  the  matter  some 
serious  thought,  our  Scribe  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
it  is  not  proper  to  incriminate  his  illustrious  Master. 
But  here  is  a  confession  which  a  hundred  crosses  can 
not  efface.  And  if  he  did  not  want  to  bring  the  mat- 
ter to  our  immediate  cognisance,  why,  we  ask,  did  he 
not  re-write  the  page?  Why  did  he  not  cover  well 
that  said  paragraph  with  crosses  and  arabesques?  We 
do  suspect  him  here  of  chicanery;  for  by  this  plausible 
recantation  he  would  shift  the  responsibility  to  the 
shoulders  of  the  Editor,  if  the  secret  is  divulged. 
Be  this  as  it  may,  no  red  crosses  can  conceal  from  us 
the  astounding  confession,  which  we  now  give  out. 
For  the  two  young  Syrians,  who  were  smuggled  out 
of  their  country  by  the  boatmen  of  Beirut,  and  who 
smuggled  themselves  into  the  city  of  New  York  (we 
beg  the  critic's  pardon;  for,  being  foreigners  ourselves, 
we  ought  to  be  permitted  to  stretch  this  term,  smuggle, 
to  cover  an  Arabic  metaphor,  or  to  smuggle  into  it  a 
foreign  meaning),  these  two  Syrians,  we  say,  became, 
in  their  capacity  of  merchants,  smugglers  of  the  most 
ingenious  and  most  evasive  type. 

We  now  note  the  following,  which  pertains  to  their 
business.  We  learn  that  they  settled  in  the  Syrian 
Quarter  directly  after  clearing  their  merchandise. 
And  before  they  entered  their  cellar,  we  are  assured, 
they  washed  their  hands  of  all  intrigues  and  were 
shrived  of  their  sins  by  the  Maronite  priest  of  the  Col- 
ony. For  they  were  pious  in  those  days,  and  right 
[40] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

Catholics.  'Tis  further  set  down  in  the  Histoire  In- 
time: 

"  We  rented  a  cellar,  as  deep  and  dark  and  damp  as 
could  be  found.  And  our  landlord  was  a  Teague, 
nay,  a  kind-hearted  old  Irishman,  who  helped  us  put 
up  the  shelves,  and  never  called  for  the  rent  in  the 
dawn  of  the  first  day  of  the  month.  In  the  front 
part  of  this  cellar  we  had  our  shop;  in  the  rear,  our 
home.  On  the  floor  we  laid  our  mattresses,  on  the 
shelves,  our  goods.  And  never  did  we  stop  to  think 
who  in  this  case  was  better  off.  The  safety  of  our 
merchandise  before  our  own.  But  ten  days  after  we 
had  settled  down,  the  water  issued  forth  from  the  floor 
and  inundated  our  shop  and  home.  It  rose  so  high 
that  it  destroyed  half  of  our  capital  stock  and  almost 
all  our  furniture.  And  yet,  w-e  continued  to  live  in 
the  cellar,  because,  perhaps,  every  one  of  our  compa- 
triot-merchants did  so.  We  were  all  alike  subject  to 
these  inundations  in  the  winter  season.  I  remember 
when  the  water  first  rose  in  our  store,  Khalid  w-as  so 
hard  set  and  in  such  a  pucker  that  he  ran  out  capless 
and  in  his  shirt  sleeves  to  discover  in  the  next  street 
the  source  of  the  flood.  And  one  day,  when  we  were 
pumping  out  the  water  he  asked  me  if  I  thought 
this  was  easier  than  rolling  our  roofs  in  Baalbek. 
For  truly,  the  paving-roller  is  child's  play  to  this 
pump.  And  a  leaky  roof  is  better  than  an  inundated 
cellar." 

However,  this  is  not  the  time  for  brooding.  They 
have  to  pump  ahead  to  save  what  remained  of  their 
capital  stock.  But  Khalid,  nevertheless,  would  brood 
[41] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

and  jabber.  And  what  an  inundation  of  ideas,  and 
what  questions! 

"  Think  you,  "  he  asks,  "  that  the  inhabitants  of  this 
New  World  are  better  oR  than  those  of  the  Old?  — 
Can  you  imagine  mankind  living  in  a  huge  cellar  of  a 
world  and  you  and  I  pumping  the  water  out  of  its  bot- 
tom ?  —  I  can  see  the  palaces  on  which  you  waste  your 
rhymes,  but  mankind  live  in  them  only  in  the  flesh. 
The  soul  I  tell  you,  still  occupies  the  basement,  even 
the  sub-cellar.  And  an  inundated  cellar  at  that. 
The  soul,  Shakib,  is  kept  below,  although  the  high 
places  are  vacant." 

And  his  partner  sputters  out  his  despair;  for  in- 
stead of  helping  to  pump  out  the  water,  Khalid  stands 
there  gazing  into  it,  as  if  by  some  miracle  he  would 
draw  it  out  with  his  eyes  or  with  his  breath.  And  the 
poor  Poet  cries  out,  "  Pump !  the  water  is  gaining 
on  us,  and  our  shop  is  going  to  ruin.  Pump ! " 
Whereupon  the  lazy,  absent-minded  one  resumes 
pumping,  while  yearning  all  the  while  for  the  plash- 
ing stone-rollers  and  the  purling  eaves  of  his  home  in 
Baalbek.  And  once  in  a  pinch, —  they  are  labouring 
under  a  peltering  rain, —  he  stops  as  is  his  wont  to 
remind  Shakib  of  the  Arabic  saying,  "  From  the 
dripping  ceiling  to  the  running  gargoyle."  He  is 
labouring  again  under  a  hurricane  of  ideas.  And 
again  he  asks,  "  Are  you  sure  we  are  better  off  here  ?  " 

And  our  poor  Scribe,  knee-deep  in  the  water  below, 

blusters  out  curses,  which  Khalid  heeds  not.     "  I  am 

tired  of  this  job,"  he  growls ;  "  the  stone-roller  never 

drew  so  much  on  my  strength,  nor  did  muleteering. 

[42] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

Ah,  for  my  dripping  ceiling  again,  for  are  we  not  now 
under  the  running  gargoyle?  "  And  he  reverts  into  a 
stupor,  leaving  the  world  to  the  poet  and  the  pump. 

For  five  years  and  more  they  lead  such  a  life  in  the 
cellar.  And  they  do  not  move  out  of  it,  lest  they  ex- 
cite the  envy  of  their  compatriots.  But  instead  of 
sleeping  on  the  floor,  they  stretch  themselves  on  the 
counters.  The  rising  tide  teaches  them  this  little 
wisdom,  which  keeps  the  doctor  and  Izrail  away. 
Their  merchandise,  however, —  their  crosses,  and 
scapulars  and  prayer-beads, —  are  beyond  hope  of  re- 
covery. For  what  the  rising  tide  spares,  the  rascally 
flyaway  peddlers  carry  away.  That  is  why  they 
themselves  shoulder  the  box  and  take  to  the  road. 
And  the  pious  old  dames  of  the  suburbs,  we  are  told, 
receive  them  with  such  exclamations  of  joy  and  won- 
der, and  almost  tear  their  coats  to  get  from  them  a 
sacred  token.  For  you  must  remember,  they  are  from 
the  Holy  Land.  Unlike  their  goods,  they  at  least  are 
genuine.  And  every  Saturday  night,  after  beating  the 
hoof  in  the  country  and  making  such  fabulous  profits 
on  their  false  Holy-Land  gewgaws,  they  return  to 
their  cellar  happy  and  content. 

"  In  three  years,"  writes  our  Scribe,  "  Khalid  and 
I  acquired  what  I  still  consider  a  handsome  fortune. 
Each  of  us  had  a  bank  account,  and  a  check  book 
which  we  seldom  used.  ...  In  spite  of  which,  we 
continued  to  shoulder  the  peddling  box  and  tramp 
along.  .  .  .  And  Khalid  would  say  to  me,  '  A 
peddler  is  superior  to  a  merchant;  we  travel  and  earn 
money;  our  compatriots  the  merchants  rust  in  their 
[43] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

cellars  and  lose  it.'  To  be  sure,  peddling  in  the 
good  old  days  was  most  attractive.  For  the  exercise, 
the  gain,  the  experience  —  these  are  rich  acquirements." 

And  both  Shakib  and  Khalid,  we  apprehend,  have 
been  hitherto  most  moderate  in  their  habits.  The  fact 
that  they  seldom  use  their  check  books,  testifies  to 
this.  They  have  now  a  peddleress,  Im-Hanna  by 
name,  who  occupies  their  cellar  in  their  absence,  and 
keeps  what  little  they  have  in  order.  And  when  they 
return  every  Saturday  night  from  their  peddling  trip, 
they  find  the  old  woman  as  ready  to  serve  them  as  a 
mother.  She  cooks  mojadderah  for  them,  and  sews 
the  bed-linen  on  the  quilts  as  is  done  in  the  mother 
country. 

"  The  linen,"  says  Shakib,  "  was  always  as  white  as 
a  dove's  wing,  when  Im-Hanna  was  with  us." 

And  in  the  Khedivial  Library  Manuscript  we  find 
this  curious  note  upon  that  popular  Syrian  dish  of 
lentils  and  olive  oil. 

"  Mojadderah, "  writes  Khalid,  "  has  a  marvellous 
effect  upon  my  humour  and  nerves.  There  are  cer- 
tain dishes,  I  confess,  which  give  me  the  blues.  Of 
these,  fried  eggplants  and  cabbage  boiled  with  corn- 
beef  on  the  American  system  of  boiling,  that  is  to  say, 
cooking,  I  abominate  the  most.  But  mojadderah  has 
such  a  soothing  effect  on  the  nerves;  it  conduces  to 
cheerfulness,  especially  when  the  raw  onion  or  the 
leek  is  taken  with  it.  After  a  good  round  pewter 
platter  of  this  delicious  dish  and  a  dozen  leeks,  I  feel 
as  if  I  could  do  the  work  of  all  mankind.  And  I  am 
then  in  such  a  beatific  state  of  mind  that  I  would  share 
[44] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

with  all  mankind  my  sack  of  lentils  and  my  pipkin  of 
olive  oil.  I  wonder  not  at  Esau's  extravagance,  when 
he  saw  a  steaming  mess  of  it.  P'or  what  is  a  birth- 
right in  comparison?  " 

That  Shakib  also  shared  this  beatific  mood,  the 
following  quaint  picture  of  their  Saturday  nights  in 
the  cellar,  will  show. 

"  A  bank  account,  "  he  writes,  "  a  good  round  dish 
of  mojadderah,  the  lute  for  Khalid,  Al-Mutanabbi  for 
me, —  neither  of  us  could  forego  his  hobby, —  and  Im- 
Hanna,  affectionate,  devoted  as  our  mothers, —  these 
were  the  joys  of  our  Saturday  nights  in  our  under- 
ground diggings.  We  were  absolutely  happy.  And 
we  never  tried  to  measure  our  happiness  in  those  days, 
or  gauge  it,  or  flay  it  to  see  if  it  be  dead  or  alive,  false 
or  real.  Ah,  the  blessedness  of  that  supreme  uncon- 
sciousness which  wrapped  us  as  a  mother  would  her 
babe,  warming  and  caressing  our  hearts.  We  did  not 
know  then  that  happiness  was  a  thing  to  be  sought. 
We  only  knew  that  peddling  is  a  pleasure,  that  a  bank 
account  is  a  supreme  joy,  that  a  dish  of  mojadderah 
cooked  by  Im-Hanna  is  a  royal  delight,  that  our  dour 
dark  cellar  is  a  palace  of  its  kind,  and  that  happiness, 
like  a  bride,  issues  from  all  these,  and,  touching  the 
strings  of  Khalid's  lute,  mantles  us  with  song." 


[45] 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  CELLAR  OF  THE  SOUL 

fJERETOFORE,  Khalid  and  Shakib  have  been 
inseparable  as  the  Pointers.  They  always  ap- 
peared together,  went  the  rounds  of  their  peddling 
orbit  together,  and  together  were  subject  to  the  same 
conditions  and  restraints.  Which  restraints  are  a  sort 
of  sacrifice  they  make  on  the  altar  of  friendship.  One, 
for  instance,  would  never  permit  himself  an  advan- 
tage which  the  other  could  not  enjoy,  or  a  pleasure  in 
which  the  other  could  not  share.  They  even  slept 
under  the  same  blanket,  we  learn,  ate  from  the  same 
plate,  puffed  at  the  same  narghilah,  which  Shakib 
brought  with  him  from  Baalbek,  and  collaborated  in 
writing  to  one  lady-love!  A  condition  of  unexampled 
friendship  this,  of  complete  oneness.  They  had  both 
cut  themselves  garments  from  the  same  cloth,  as  the 
Arabic  saying  goes.  And  on  Sunday  afternoon,  in 
garments  spick  and  span,  they  would  take  the  air  in 
Battery  Park,  where  the  one  would  invoke  the  Statue 
of  Liberty  for  a  thought,  or  the  gilded  domes  of  Broad- 
way for  a  metaphor,  while  the  other  would  be  scour- 
ing the  horizon  for  the  Nothingness,  which  is  called, 
in  the  recondite  cant  of  the  sophisticated,  a  vague 
something. 

In    the   Khedivial    Library    MS.    we    find   nothing 
[46] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

which  this  Battery  Park  might  have  inspired.  And 
yet,  we  can  not  believe  that  Khalid  here  was  only  at- 
tracted by  that  vague  something  which,  in  his  spiritual 
enceinteship,  he  seemed  to  relish.  Nothing?  Not 
even  the  does  and  kangaroos  that  adorn  the  Park  dis- 
tracted or  detained  him?  We  doubt  it;  and  Khalid's 
lute  sustains  us  in  our  doubt.  Ay,  and  so  does  our 
Scribe;  for  in  his  Histoire  Intime  we  read  the  follow- 
ing, which  we  faithfully  transcribe. 

"  Of  the  many  attractions  of  Battery  Park,  the  girls 
and  the  sea  were  my  favourite.  For  the  girls  in  a 
crowd  have  for  me  a  fascination  which  only  the  girls  at 
the  bath  can  surpass.  I  love  to  lose  myself  in  a 
crowd,  to  buffet,  so  to  speak,  its  waves,  to  nestle  un- 
der their  feathery  crests.  For  the  rolling  waves  of 
life,  the  tumbling  waves  of  the  sea,  and  the  fiery  waves 
of  Al-Mutanabbi's  poetry  have  always  been  my  de- 
light. In  Battery  Park  I  took  especial  pleasure  in 
reading  aloud  my  verses  to  Khalid,  or  in  fact  to  the 
sea,  for  Khalid  never  would  listen. 

"  Once  I  composed  a  few  stanzas  to  the  Milkmaid 
who  stood  in  her  wagon  near  the  lawn,  rattling  out 
milk-punches  to  the  boys.  A  winsome  lass  she  was, 
fresh  in  her  sororiation,  with  fair  blue  eyes,  a  celes- 
tial flow  of  auburn  hair,  and  cheeks  that  suggested  the 
milk  and  cherry  in  the  glass  she  rattled  out  to  me.  I 
was  reading  aloud  the  stanzas  which  she  inspired, 
when  Khalid,  who  was  not  listening,  pointed  out  to  me 
a  woman  whose  figure  and  the  curves  thereof  were 
remarkable.  *  Is  it  not  strange,'  said  he,  '  how  the 
women  here  Indraw  their  stomachs  and  outdraw  their 
[47] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

hips  ?  And  is  not  this  the  opposite  of  the  shape  which 
our  women  cultivate  ? ' 

"  Yes,  with  the  Lebanon  women,  the  convex  curve 
beneath  the  waist  is  frontward,  not  hindward.  But 
that  is  a  matter  of  taste,  I  thought,  and  man  is  partly 
responsible  for  either  convexity.  I  have  often  won- 
dered, however,  why  the  women  of  my  country  culti- 
vate that  shape.  And  why  do  they  in  America  culti- 
vate the  reverse  of  it?  Needless  to  say  that  both  are 
pruriently  titillating, —  both  distentions  are  damnably 
suggestive,  quite  killing.  The  American  woman, 
from  a  fine  sense  of  modesty,  I  am  told,  never  or  sel- 
dom ventures  abroad,  when  big  with  child.  But  in 
the  kangaroo  figure,  the  burden  is  slightly  shifted  and 
naught  is  amiss.  Ah,  such  haunches  as  are  here  ex- 
hibited suggest  the  aliats  of  our  Asiatic  sheep." 

And  what  he  says  about  the  pruriently  titillating 
convexities,  whether  frontward  or  hindward,  suggests 
a  little  prudery.  For  in  his  rhymes  he  betrays  both  his 
comrade  and  himself.  Battery  Park  and  the  attrac- 
tions thereof  prove  fatal.  Elsewhere,  therefore,  they 
must  go,  and  begin  to  draw  on  their  bank  accounts. 
Which  does  not  mean,  however,  that  they  are  far 
from  the  snare.  No ;  for  when  a  young  man  begins  to 
suffer  from  what  the  doctors  call  hebephrenia,  the  far- 
ther he  draws  away  from  such  snares  the  nearer  he 
gets  to  them.  And  these  lusty  Syrians  could  not  repel 
the  magnetic  attraction  of  the  polypiosis  of  what  Sha- 
kib  likens  to  the  aliat  (fattail)  of  our  Asiatic  sheep. 
Surely,  there  be  more  devils  under  such  an  aliat  than 
under  the  hat  of  a  Jesuit.  And  Khalid  is  the  first 
C48] 


IN    THE     EXCHANGE 

to  discover  this.  Both  have  been  ensnared,  however, 
and  both,  when  in  the  snare,  have  been  infernally  in- 
spired. What  Khalid  wrote,  when  he  was  under  the 
influence  of  feminine  curves,  was  preserved  by  Shakib, 
who  remarks  that  one  evening,  after  returning  from 
the  Park,  Khalid  said  to  him,  '  I  am  going  to  write  a 
poem.'  A  fortnight  later,  he  hands  him  the  follow- 
ing, which  he  jealously  kept  among  his  papers. 

I  dreamt  I  was  a  donkey-boy  again. 

Out  on  the  sun-swept  roads  of  Baalbek,  I  tramp  behind  my 

burro,  trolling  my  mulayiah. 
At  noon,  I   pass  by   a  garden   redolent  of  mystic  scents  and 

tarry   awhile. 
Under  an  orange  tree,  on  the  soft  green  grass,  I  stretch  my 

limbs. 
The  daisies,  the  anemones,  and  the  cyclamens  are  round  me 

pressing: 
The  anemone  buds  hold  out  to  me  their  precious  rubies;  the 

daisies  kiss  me  in  the  eyes  and  lips;  and  the  cyclamens 

shake  their  powder   in  my  hair. 
On  the  wall,   the  roses  are  nodding,   smiling;   above  me  the 

orange    blossoms    surrender    themselves    to    the    wooing 

breeze;  and  on  yonder  rock  the  salamander  sits,  compla- 
cent and  serene. 
I  take  a  daisy,  and,  boy  as  boys  go,  question  its  petals: 
Married  man  or  monk,  I  ask,  plucking  them  off  one  by  one, 
And   the   last  petal  says.   Monk. 
I   perfume   my   fingers   with   crumpled   cyclamens,   cover   my 

face  with  the  dark-eyed  anemones,  and  fall  asleep. 
And   my   burro   sleeps   beneath   the   wall,   in   the   shadow   of 

nodding   roses. 
And   the  black-birds  too  are  dozing,   and  the  bulbuls  flitting 

by  whisper  with  their  wings,  '  salaam.' 
Peace  and  salaam! 
The  bulbul,   the  black-bird,   the  salamander,   the   burro,   and 

the  burro-boy,  are  to  each  other  shades  of  noon-day  sun: 
Happy,  loving,  generous,  and  free;  — 
As  happy  as  each  other,  and  as  free. 

[49] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

We   do  what   we    please   in    Nature's   realm,    go   where   we 

please; 
No  one's  offended,  no  one  ever  wronged. 
No  sentinels  hath  Nature,  no  police. 
But  lo,  a  goblin  as  I  sleep  comes  forth ;  — 
A  goblin  taller  than  the  tallest  poplar,  who  carries  me  upon 

his  neck  to  the  Park  in  far  New  York. 
Here    women,    light-heeled,    heavy-haunched,    pace    up    and 

down  the  flags  in  graceful  gait. 
My  roses  these,  I  cry,  and  my  orange  blossoms. 
But  the  goblin  placed  his  hand  upon  my  mouth,  and  I  was 

dumb. 
The  cyclamens,  the  anemones,  the  daisies,  I  saw  them,  but  I 

could  not  speak  to  them. 
The    goblin   placed   his   hand   upon    my   mouth,   and   I   was 

dumb. 

0  take  me  back  to  my  own  groves,  I  cried,  or  let  me  speak. 
But  he  threw  me  off  his  shoulders  in  a  huff,  among  the  daisies 

and  the  cyclamens. 
Alone  among  them,  but  I  could  not  speak. 
He  had  tied  my  tongue,  the  goblin,  and  left  me  there  alone. 
And  in  front  of  me,   and  towards  me,  and  beside  me, 
Walked  Allah's  fairest  cyclamens  and  anemones. 

1  smell  them,  and  the  tears  flow  down  my  cheeks; 
I  can  not  even  like  the  noon-day  bulbul 
Whisper  with  my  wings,  salaam! 

I  sit  me  on  a  bench  and  weep. 

And  in  my  heart  I  sing 

O,  let  me  be  a  burro-boy  again; 

O,  let  me  sleep  among  the  cyclamens 

Of  my  own  land. 

Shades  of  Whitman !  But  Whitman,  thou  Donkey, 
never  weeps.  Whitman,  if  that  gobh'n  tried  to  silence 
him,  would  have  wrung  his  neck,  after  he  had  ridden 
upon  it.  The  above,  nevertheless,  deserves  the  space 
we  give  it  here,  as  it  shadows  forth  one  of  the  essen- 
tial elements  of  Khalid's  spiritual  rnake-up.  But  this 
slight  symptom  of  that  disease  we  named,  this  morbid- 
ness incident  to  adolescence,  is  eventually  overcome  by 
[50] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

a  dictionary  and  a  grammar.  Ay,  Khalid  henceforth 
shall  cease  to  scour  the  horizon  for  that  vague  some- 
thing of  his  dreams;  he  has  become  far-sighted  enough 
by  the  process  to  see  the  necessity  of  pursuing  in 
America  something  more  spiritual  than  peddling 
crosses  and  scapulars.  Especially  in  this  America, 
where  the  alphabet  is  spread  broadcast,  and  free  of 
charge.  And  so,  he  sets  himself  to  the  task  of  self- 
education.  He  feels  the  embryo  stir  within  him,  and 
in  the  squeamishness  of  enceinteship,  he  asks  but  for  a 
few  of  the  fruits  of  knowledge.  Ah,  but  he  becomes 
voracious  of  a  sudden,  and  the  little  pocket  dictionary 
is  devoured  entirely  in  three  sittings.  Hence  his  folly 
of  treating  his  thoughts  and  fancies,  as  he  was  treated 
by  the  goblin.  For  do  not  words  often  rob  a  fancy  of 
its  tongue,  or  a  thought  of  its  soul?  Many  of  the 
pieces  Khalid  wrote  when  he  was  devouring  diction- 
aries were  finally  disposed  of  in  a  most  picturesque 
manner,  as  we  shall  relate.  And  a  few  were  given  to 
Shakib,  of  which  that  Dream  of  Cyclamens  was  pre- 
served. 

And  Khalid's  motto  was,  "  One  book  at  a  time." 
He  would  not  encumber  himself  with  books  any  more 
than  he  would  with  shoes.  But  that  the  mind  might 
not  go  barefoot,  he  alwaj's  bought  a  new  book  before 
destroying  the  one  in  hand.  Destroying?  Yes;  for 
after  reading  or  studying  a  book,  he  warms  his  hands 
upon  its  flames,  this  Khalid,  or  makes  it  serve  to  cook 
a  pot  of  TTiojadderah.  In  this  extraordinary  and  out- 
rageous manner,  barbarously  capricious,  he  would  bap- 
tise the  ideal  in  the  fire  of  the  real.  And  thus,  glow- 
[51] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

ing  with  health  and  confidence  and  conceit,  he  enters 
another  Park  from  which  he  escapes  in  the  end,  sad 
and  wan  and  bankrupt.  Of  a  truth,  many  attractions 
and  distractions  are  here;  else  he  could  not  forget  the 
peddling-box  and  the  light-heeled,  heavy-haunched 
women  of  Battery  Park.  Here  are  swings  for  the 
mind ;  toboggan-chutes  for  the  soul ;  merry-go-rounds 
for  the  fancy;  and  many  devious  and  alluring  paths 
where  one  can  lose  himself  for  years.  A  sanitarium 
this  for  the  hebephreniac.  And  like  all  sanitariums, 
you  go  into  it  with  one  disease  and  come  out  of  it  with 
ten.  Had  Shakib  been  forewarned  of  Khalid's  mind, 
had  he  even  seen  him  at  the  gate  before  he  entered,  he 
would  have  given  him  a  few  hints  about  the  cross- 
signs  and  barbed-cordons  therein.  But  should  he  not 
have  divined  that  Khalid  soon  or  late  was  coming? 
Did  he  not  call  enough  to  him,  and  aloud?  "Get 
thee  behind  me  on  this  dromedary,"  our  Scribe,  read- 
ing his  Al-Mutanabbi,  would  often  say  to  his  com- 
rade, "  and  come  from  this  desert  of  barren  gold,  if  but 
for  a  day, —  come  out  with  me  to  the  oasis  of  poesy." 

But  Khalid  would  only  ride  alone.  And  so, 
he  begins  his  course  of  self-education.  But  how 
he  shall  manage  it,  in  this  cart-before-the-horse 
fashion,  the  reader  shall  know.  Words  before  rules, 
ideas  before  systems,  epigrams  before  texts, — that  is 
Khalid's  fancy.  And  that  seems  feasible,  though  not 
logical;  it  will  prove  effectual,  too,  if  one  finally 
brushed  the  text  and  glanced  at  the  rules.  For  an 
epigram,  when  it  takes  possession  of  one,  goes  farther 
in  influencing  his  thoughts  and  actions  than  whole 
[52] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

tomes  of  ethical  culture  science.  You  know  perhaps 
how  the  Arabs  conquered  the  best  half  of  the  world 
with  an  epigram,  a  word.  And  Khalid  loves  a  fine- 
sounding,  easy-flowing  word ;  a  word  of  supple  joints, 
so  to  speak;  a  word  that  you  can  twist  and  roll  out, 
flexible  as  a  bamboo  switch,  resilient  as  a  fine  steel 
rapier.  But  once  Shakib,  after  reading  one  of  Kha- 
lid's  first  attempts,  gets  up  in  the  night  when  his 
friend  is  asleep,  takes  from  the  bottom  drawer  of  the 
peddling-box  the  evil-working  dictionary,  and  places 
therein  a  grammar.  This  touch  of  delicacy,  this  fine 
piece  of  criticism,  brief  and  neat,  without  words 
withal,  Khalid  this  time  is  not  slow  to  grasp  and 
appreciate.  He  plunges,  therefore,  headlong  into  the 
grammar,  turns  a  few  somersaults  in  the  mazes  of 
Sibawai  and  Naftawai,  and  coming  out  with  a  broken 
noddle,  writes  on  the  door  the  following:  "What  do 
I  care  about  your  theories  of  nouns  and  verbs? 
Whether  the  one  be  derived  from  the  other,  concerns 
not  me.  But  this  I  know,  after  stumbling  once  or 
twice  in  your  labyrinths,  one  comes  out  parsing  the 
verb,  to  run.  Indeed,  verbs  are  more  essential  than 
nouns  and  adjectives.  A  noun  can  be  represented  pic- 
torially;  but  how,  pictorially,  can  you  represent  a 
noun  in  motion, — Khalid,  for  instance,  running  out  of 
your  labyrinths?  Even  an  abstract  state  can  be  repre- 
sented in  a  picture,  but  a  transitive  state  never.  The 
richest  language,  therefore,  is  not  the  one  which  can 
boast  of  a  thousand  names  for  the  lion  or  two  thou- 
sand for  the  camel,  but  the  one  whose  verbs  have  a 
complete  and  perfect  gamut  of  moods  and  tenses." 
[53] 


OF    KHALI  D 

That  is  why,  although  writing  in  Arabic,  Khalid 
prefers  English.  For  the  Arabic  verb  is  confined  to 
three  tenses,  the  primary  ones  only;  and  to  break 
through  any  of  these  in  any  degree,  requires  such 
crowbars  as  only  auxiliaries  and  other  verbs  can 
furnish.  For  this  and  many  other  reasons  Khalid 
stops  short  in  the  mazes  of  Sibawai,  runs  out  of  them 
exasperated,  depressed,  and  never  for  a  long  time  after 
looks  in  that  direction.  He  is  now  curious  to  know  if 
the  English  language  have  its  Sibawais  and  Naft- 
awais.  And  so,  he  buys  him  a  grammar,  and  there 
finds  the  way  somewhat  devious,  too,  but  not  enough 
to  constitute  a  maze.  The  men  who  wrote  these 
grammars  must  have  had  plenty  of  time  to  do  a  little 
useful  work.  They  do  not  seem  to  have  walked  lei- 
surely In  flowing  robes  disserting  a  life-long  disserta- 
tion on  the  origin  and  descent  of  a  preposition.  One 
day  Shakib  is  amazed  by  finding  the  grammars  page 
by  page  tacked  on  the  walls  of  the  cellar  and  Khalid 
pacing  around  leisurely  lingering  a  moment  before 
each  page,  as  if  he  were  in  an  art  gallery.  That  is 
how  he  tackled  his  subject.  And  that  is  why  he  and 
Shakib  begin  to  quarrel.  The  idea!  That  a  fledg- 
ling should  presume  to  pick  flaws.  To  Shakib,  who 
is  textual  to  a  hair,  this  is  intolerable.  And  that  state 
of  oneness  between  them  shall  be  subject  hereafter  to 
"  the  corrosive  action  of  various  unfriendly  agents." 
For  Khalid,  who  has  never  yet  been  snaffled,  turns 
restively  from  the  bit  which  his  friend,  for  his  own 
sake,  would  put  in  his  mouth.  The  rupture  follows. 
The  two  for  a  while  wend  their  way  in  opposite  direc- 
[54] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

tions.  Shakib  still  cherishing  and  cultivating  his  bank 
account,  shoulders  his  peddling-box  and  jogs  along  with 
his  inspiring  demon,  under  whose  auspices,  he  tells  us, 
he  continues  to  write  verse  and  gull  with  his  brum- 
magems the  pious  dames  of  the  suburbs.  And  Khalid 
sits  on  his  peddling-box  for  hours  pondering  on  the 
necessity  of  disposing  of  it  somehow.  For  now  he 
scarcely  makes  more  than  a  few  peddling-trips  each 
month,  and  when  he  returns,  he  does  not  go  to  the 
bank  to  add  to  his  balance,  but  to  draw  from  it.  That 
is  why  the  accounts  of  the  two  Syrians  do  not  fare 
alike;  Shakib's  is  gaining  in  weight,  Khalid's  is  wast- 
ing away. 

Yes,  the  strenuous  spirit  is  a  long  time  dead  in 
Khalid.  He  is  gradually  reverting  to  the  Oriental 
instinct.  And  when  he  is  not  loafing  in  Bat- 
tery Park,  carving  his  name  on  the  bench,  he  is  bur- 
rowing in  the  shelves  of  some  second-hand  book-shop 
or  dreaming  in  the  dome  of  some  Broadway  sky- 
scraper. Does  not  this  seem  inevitable,  however,  con- 
sidering the  palingenetic  burden  within  him?  And  is 
not  loafing  a  necessary  prelude  to  the  travail? 
Khalid,  of  course,  felt  the  necessity  of  this,  not  know- 
ing the  why  and  wherefor.  And  from  the  vast  world 
of  paper-bound  souls,  for  he  relished  but  pamphlets  at 
the  start  —  they  do  not  make  much  smoke  in  the  fire, 
he  would  say  —  from  that  vast  world  he  could  com- 
mand the  greatest  of  the  great  to  help  him  support  the 
loafing  while.  And  as  by  a  miracle,  he  came  out  of 
that  chaos  of  contending  spirits  without  a  scratch. 
He  enjoyed  the  belligerency  of  pamphleteers  as  an 
[55] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

American  would  enjoy  a  prize  fight.  But  he  sided 
with  no  one ;  he  took  from  every  one  his  best  and  con- 
signed him  to  Im-Hanna's  kitchen.  Torquemada 
could  not  have  done  better;  but  Khalid,  it  is  hoped, 
will  yet  atone  for  his  crimes. 

Monsieur  Pascal,  with  whom  he  quarrels  before  he 
burns,  had  a  particular  influence  upon  him.  He  could 
not  rest  after  reading  his  "  Thoughts  "  until  he  read 
the  Bible.  And  of  the  Prophets  of  the  Old  Testa- 
ment he  had  an  especial  liking  for  Jeremiah  and  Isaiah. 
And  once  he  bought  a  cheap  print  of  Jeremiah  which 
he  tacked  on  the  wall  of  his  cellar.  From  the  Khe- 
divial  Library  MS.  we  give  two  excerpts  relating  to 
Pascal  and  this  Prophet. 

"  O   Monsieur  Pascal, 

"  I  tried  hard  to  hate  and  detest  myself,  as  you  advise,  and 
I  found  that  I  could  not  by  so  doing  love  God.  'Tis  in 
loving  the  divine  in  Man,  in  me,  in  you,  that  we  rise  to 
the  love  of  our  Maker.  And  in  giving  your  proofs  of  the 
true  religion,  you  speak  of  the  surprising  measures  of  the 
Christian  Faith,  enjoining  man  to  acknowledge  himself  vile, 
base,  abominable,  and  obliging  him  at  the  same  time  to  as- 
pire towards  a  resemblance  of  his  Maker.  Now,  I  see  in 
this  a  foreshadowing  of  the  theory  of  evolution,  nay  a  divine 
warrant  for  it.  Nor  is  it  the  Christian  religion  alone  which 
unfolds  to  man  the  twofold  mystery  of  his  nature;  others 
are  as  dark  and  as  bright  on  either  side  of  the  pole.  And 
Philosophy  conspiring  with  Biology  will  not  consent  to  the 
apotheosis  of  Man,  unless  he  wear  on  his  breast  a  symbol  of 
his  tail.  .  .  .  Au-revoir,  Monsieur  Pascal.  Remember 
me  to  St.  Augustine." 

"  O  Jeremiah, 

"  Thy  picture,  sitting  among  the  ruins  of  the  City  of  Zion, 
appeals  to  my  soul.  Why,  I  know  not.  It  may  be  because 
I  myself  once  sat  in  that  posture  among  the  ruins  of  my  na- 
tive City  of  Baal.  But  the  ruins  did  not  grieve  me  as_  did 
the  uncle  who  slammed  the  door  in  my  face  that  night. 
[56] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

True,  I  wept  in  the  ruins,  but  not  over  them.  Something 
else  had  punctured  the  bladderets  of  ray  tears.  And  who 
knows  who  punctured  thine,  O  Jeremiah?  Perhaps  a  daugh- 
ter of  Tamar  had  stuck  a  bodkin  in  thine  eye,  and  in  lament- 
ing thine  own  fate  —  Pardon  me,  O  Jeremiah.  Melikes  not 
all  these  tears  of  thine.  Nor  did  Zlon  and  her  children  in 
Juhannam,  I  am  sure.  .  .  .  Instead  of  a  scroll  in  thy 
hand,  I  would  have  thee  hold  a  harp.  Since  King  David, 
Allah  has  not  thought  of  endowing  his  prophets  with  mu- 
sical talent.  Why,  think  what  an  honest  prophet  could  ac- 
complish if  his  message  were  put  into  music.  And  withal, 
if  he  himself  could  sing  it.  Yes,  our  modern  Jeremiahs 
should  all  take  music  lessons;  for  no  matter  how  deep  and 
poignant  our  sorrows,  we  can  always  rise  from  them,  harp 
in  hand,  to  an  ecstasy,  joyous  and  divine." 

Now,  connect  with  this  the  following  from  the 
Histoire  Intime,  and  you  have  the  complete  history  of 
this  Prophet  in  Khalid's  cellar.  For  Khalid  himself 
never  gives  us  the  facts  in  the  case.  Our  Scribe,  how- 
ever, comes  not  short  in  this. 

"  The  picture  of  the  Prophet  Jeremiah,"  writes  he, 
"  Khalid  hung  on  the  wall,  above  his  bed.  And 
every  night  he  would  look  up  to  it  invokingly,  mutter- 
ing I  know  not  what.  One  evening,  while  in  this 
posture,  he  took  up  his  lute  and  trolled  a  favourite 
ditty.  For  three  days  and  three  nights  that  picture 
hung  on  the  wall.  And  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth 
day — it  was  a  cold  December  morning,  I  remember 
—  he  took  It  down  and  lighted  the  fire  with  it.  The 
Pamphlet  he  had  read  a  few  days  since,  he  also  threw 
into  the  fire,  and  thereupon  called  to  me  saying,  *  Come, 
Shakib,  and  warm  yourself.'  " 

And  the  Pamphlet,  we  learn,  which  was  thus  bap- 
tised in  the  same  fire  with  the  Prophet's  picture,  was 
Tom  Paine's  Age  of  Reason. 
[57] 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  SUMMER  AFTERNOON  OF  A  SHAM 

rpOR  two  years  and  more  Khalid's  young  mind 
went  leaping  from  one  swing  to  another,  from 
one  carousel  or  toboggan-chute  to  the  next,  without 
having  any  special  object  in  view,  without  knowing 
why  and  wherefor.  He  even  entered  such  mazes  of 
philosophy,  such  labyrinths  of  mysticism  as  put  those 
of  the  Arabian  grammaticasters  in  the  shade.  To 
him,  education  was  a  sport,  pursued  in  a  free  spirit 
after  his  own  fancy,  without  method  or  discipline. 
For  two  years  and  more  he  did  little  but  ramble  thus, 
drawing  meanwhile  on  his  account  in  the  bank,  and 
burning  pamphlets. 

One  day  he  passes  by  a  second-hand  book-shop, 
which  is  in  the  financial  hive  of  the  city,  hard  by  a 
church  and  within  a  stone's  throw  from  the  Stock 
Exchange.  The  owner,  a  shabby  venerable,  standing 
there,  pipe  in  mouth,  between  piles  of  pamphlets  and 
little  pyramids  of  books,  attracts  Khalid.  He  too 
occupies  a  cellar.  And  withal  he  resembles  the 
Prophet  in  the  picture  which  was  burned  with  Tom 
Paine's  Age  of  Reason.  Nothing  in  the  face  at  least 
is  amiss.  A  flowing,  serrated,  milky  beard,  with  a 
touch  of  gold  around  the  mouth;  an  aquiline  nose; 
deep  set  blue  eyes  canopied  with  shaggy  brows;  a  fore- 
{58] 


IN    THE     EXCHANGE 

head  broad  and  high;  a  dome  a  h'ttle  frowsy  but  not 
guilty  of  a  hair  —  the  Prophet  Jeremiah !  Only  one 
thing,  a  clay  pipe  which  he  seldom  took  out  of  his 
mouth  except  to  empty  and  refill,  seemed  to  take  from 
the  prophetic  solemnity  of  the  face.  Otherwise,  he  is 
as  grim  and  sullen  as  the  Prophet.  In  his  voice, 
however,  there  is  a  supple  sweetness  which  the  hard 
lines  in  his  face  do  not  express.  Khalid  nicknames 
him  second-hand  Jerry,  makes  to  him  professions  of 
friendship,  and  for  many  months  comes  every  day  to 
see  him.  He  comes  with  his  bucket,  as  he  would  say, 
to  Jerry's  well.  For  the  two,  the  young  man  and  the 
old  man  of  the  cellar,  the  neophite  and  the  master, 
would  chat  about  literature  and  the  makers  of  it  for 
hours.  And  what  a  sea  of  information  is  therein  un- 
der that  frowsy  dome.  Withal,  second-hand  Jerry  is 
a  man  of  ideals  and  abstractions,  exhibiting  now  and 
then  an  heretical  twist  which  is  as  agreeable  as  the 
vermiculations  in  a  mahogany.  "  We  moderns," 
said  he  once  to  Khalid,  "  are  absolutely  one- 
sided. Here,  for  instance,  is  my  book-shop,  there 
is  the  Church,  and  yonder  is  the  Stock  Exchange. 
Now,  the  men  who  frequent  them,  and  though  their 
elbows  touch,  are  as  foreign  to  each  other  as  is  a  jerboa 
to  a  polar  bear.  Those  who  go  to  Church  do  not  go 
to  the  Stock  Exchange ;  those  who  spend  their  days  on 
the  Stock  Exchange  seldom  go  to  Church ;  and  those 
who  frequent  my  cellar  go  neither  to  the  one  nor  the 
other.  That  is  why  our  civilisation  produces  so  many 
bigots,  so  many  phillstines,  so  many  pedants  and  prigs. 
The  Stock  Exchange  is  as  necessary  to  Society  as  the 
[59] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

Church,  and  the  Church  is  as  vital,  as  essential  to  its 
spiritual  well-being  as  my  book-shop.  And  not  until 
man  develops  his  mental,  spiritual  and  physical  facul- 
ties to  what  Matthew  Arnold  calls  *  a  harmonious  per- 
fection,' will  he  be  able  to  reach  the  heights  from  which 
Idealism  is  waving  to  him." 

Thus  would  the  master  discourse,  and  the  neophite, 
sitting  on  the  steps  of  the  cellar,  smoking  his  cig- 
arette, listens,  admiring,  pondering.  And  every  time 
he  comes  with  his  bucket,  Jerry  would  be  standing 
there,  between  his  little  pyramids  of  books,  pipe  in 
mouth,  hands  in  pockets,  ready  for  the  discourse.  He 
would  also  conduct  through  his  underworld  any  one 
who  had  the  leisure  and  inclination.  But  fortunately 
for  Khalid,  the  people  of  this  district  are  either  too 
rich  to  buy  second-hand  books,  or  too  snobbish  to 
stop  before  this  curiosity  shop  of  literature.  Hence 
the  master  is  never  too  busy;  he  is  always  ready  to 
deliver  the  discourse. 

One  day  Khalid  is  conducted  into  the  labyrinthine 
gloom  and  mould  of  the  cellar.  Through  the  narrow 
isles,  under  a  low  ceiling,  papered,  as  it  were,  with 
pamphlets,  between  ramparts  and  mounds  of  books, 
old  Jerry,  his  head  bowed,  his  lighted  taper  in  hand, 
proceeds.  And  Khalid  follows  directly  behind,  listen- 
ing to  his  guide  who  points  out  the  objects  and  places 
of  interest.  And  thus,  through  the  alle3's  and  by- 
ways, through  the  nooks  and  labyrinths  of  these  under- 
ground temple-ruins,  we  get  to  the  rear,  where  the 
ramparts  and  mounds  crumble  to  a  mighty  heap,  rising 
pell-mell  to  the  ceiling.  Here,  one  is  likely  to  get  a 
[60] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

glimpse  into  such  enchanted  worlds  as  the  name  of  a 
Dickens  or  a  Balzac  might  suggest.  Here,  too,  is 
Shakespeare  in  lamentable  state;  there  is  Carlyle  in 
rags,  still  crying,  as  it  were,  against  the  filth  and  beast- 
liness of  this  underworld.  And  look  at  my  lord  Ten- 
nyson shivering  in  his  nakedness  and  doomed  to  keep 
company  with  the  meanest  of  poetasters.  Observe 
how  Emerson  is  wriggled  and  ruffled  in  this  crushing 
crowd.  Does  he  not  seem  to  be  still  sighing  for  a 
little  solitude?  But  here,  too,  are  spots  of  the  rarest 
literary  interest.  Close  to  the  vilest  of  dime  novels  is 
an  autograph  copy  of  a  book  which  you  might  not  find 
at  Brentano's.  Indeed,  the  rarities  here  stand  side  by 
side  with  the  superfluities  —  the  abominations  with  the 
blessings  of  literature  —  cluttered  together,  reduced  to 
a  common  level.  And  all  in  a  condition  which  be- 
speaks the  time  when  they  were  held  in  the  affection 
of  some  one.  Now,  they  lie  a-mouldering  in  these 
mounds,  and  on  these  shelves,  awaiting  a  curious  eye, 
a  kindly  hand. 


"To  me,"  writes  Khalld  in  the  K.  L.  MS.,  "there  is  al- 
ways something  pathetic  in  a  second-hand  book  offered  again 
for  sale.  Why  did  its  first  owner  part  with  it?  Was  it  out 
of  disgust  or  surfeit  or  penury?  Did  he  throw  it  away,  or 
give  it  away,  or  sell  it?  Alas,  and  is  this  how  to  treat  a 
friend?  Were  it  not  better  burned,  than  sold  or  thrown 
away?  After  coming  out  of  the  press,  how  many  have 
handled  this  tattered  volume?  How  many  has  it  entertained, 
enlightened,  or  perverted?  Look  at  its  pages,  which  evi- 
dence the  hardship  of  the  journey  it  has  made.  Here  still  is 
a  pressed  flower,  more  convincing  in  its  shrouded  eloquence 
than  the  philosophy  of  the  pages  in  which  it  lies  buried.     On 

[6i] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

the  fly-leaf  are  the  names  of  three  successive  owners,  and  on 
the  margin  are  lead  pencil  notes  in  which  the  reader  crit- 
icises the  author.  Their  spirits  are  now  shrouded  together 
and  entombed  in  this  pile,  where  the  mould  never  fails  and 
the  moths  never  die.  They  too  are  fallen  a  prey  to  the 
worms  of  the  earth.  A  second-hand  book-shop  always  re- 
minds me  of  a  Necropolis.  It  is  a  kind  of  Serapeum  where 
lies  buried  the  kings  and  princes  with  the  helots  and  under- 
lings of  literature.  Ay,  every  book  is  a  mortuary  chamber 
containing  the  remains  of  some  poor  literary  wretch,  or  some 
mighty  genius.  ...  A  book  is  a  friend,  my  brothers, 
and  when  it  ceases  to  entertain  or  instruct  or  inspire,  it  is 
dead.  And  would  you  sell  a  dead  friend,  would  you  throw 
him  away?  If  you  can  not  keep  him  embalmed  on  your 
shelf,  is  it  not  the  wiser  part,  and  the  kinder,  to  cremate 
him?" 


And  Khalid  tells  old  Jerry,  that  if  every  one  buy- 
ing and  reading  books,  disposed  of  them  in  the  end  as 
he  himself  does,  second-hand  book-shops  would  no 
longer  exist.  But  old  Jerry  never  despairs  of  business. 
And  the  idea  of  turning  his  Serapeum  into  a  kiln  does 
not  appeal  to  him.  Howbeit,  Khalid  has  other  ideas 
which  the  old  man  admires,  and  which  he  would  carry 
out  if  the  police  would  not  interfere.  "  If  I  were  the 
owner  of  this  shop,  "  thus  the  neophite  to  the  master, 
"  I  would  advertise  it  with  a  bonfire  of  pamphlets.  I 
would  take  a  few  hundreds  from  that  mound  there 
and  give  them  the  match  right  in  front  of  that 
Church,  or  better  still  before  the  Stock  Exchange. 
And  I  would  have  two  sandwich-men  stand  about  the 
bonfire,  as  high  priests  of  the  Temple,  and  chant  the 
praises  of  second-hand  Jerry  and  his  second-hand  book- 
shop. This  will  be  the  sacrifice  which  you  will  have 
offered  to  the  god  of  Trade  right  in  front  of  his  sane- 
[62] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

tuary  that  he  might  soften  the  induration  in  the 
breasts  of  these  worthy  citizens,  your  rich  neighbours. 
And  if  he  does  not,  why,  shut  up  shop  or  burn  it  up, 
and  let  us  go  out  peddling  together.  " 

We  do  not  know,  however,  whether  old  Jerry  ever 
adopted  Khalid's  idea.  He  himself  is  an  Oriental  in 
this  sense ;  and  the  business  is  good  enough  to  keep  up, 
so  long  as  Khalid  comes.  He  is  supremely  content. 
Indeed,  Shakib  asseverates  in  round  Arabic,  that  the 
old  man  of  the  cellar  got  a  good  portion  of  Khalid's 
balance,  while  balancing  Khalid's  mind.  Nay,  firing 
it  with  free-thought  literature.  Are  we  then  to  con- 
sider this  cellar  as  Khalid's  source  of  spiritual  illumi- 
nation? And  is  this  genial  old  heretic  an  American 
avatar  of  the  monk  Bohaira?  For  Khalid  is  gradually 
becoming  a  man  of  ideas  and  crotchets.  He  is  begin- 
ning to  see  a  purpose  in  all  his  literary  and  spiritual 
rambles.  His  mental  nebulosity  is  resolving  itself  into 
something  concrete,  which  shall  weigh  upon  him  for 
a  while  and  propel  him  in  the  direction  of  Atheism 
and  Demagogy.  For  old  Jerry  once  visits  Khalid  in 
his  cellar,  and  after  partaking  of  a  dish  of  mojadderah, 
takes  him  to  a  political  meeting  to  hear  the  popular 
orators  of  the  day. 

And  in  this  is  ineffable  joy  for  Khalid.  Like  every 
young  mind  he  is  spellbound  by  one  of  those  masters 
of  spread-eagle  oratory,  and  for  some  time  he  does  not 
miss  a  single  political  meeting  in  his  district.  We 
even  see  him  among  the  crowd  before  the  corner  grog- 
gery,  cheering  one  of  the  political  spouters  of  the  day. 

And  once  he  accompanies  Jerry  to  the  Temple  of 
[63] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

Atheism  to  behold  its  high  Priest  and  hear  him  chant 
halleluiah  to  the  Nebular  Hypothesis.  This  is  won- 
derful. How  easy  it  is  to  dereligionise  the  human 
race  and  banish  God  from  the  Universe!  But  after 
the  High  Priest  had  done  this,  after  he  had  proven  to 
the  satisfaction  of  every  atheist  that  God  is  a  myth, 
old  Jerry  turns  around  and  gives  Khalid  this  warning: 
"  Don't  believe  all  he  says,  for  I  know  that  atheist 
well.     He  is  as  eloquent  as  he  is  insincere." 

And  so  are  all  atheists.  For  at  bottom,  atheism 
is  either  a  fad  or  a  trade  or  a  fatuity.  And  whether 
the  one  or  the  other,  it  is  a  sham  more  pernicious  than 
the  worst.  To  the  young  mind,  it  is  a  shibboleth  of 
cheap  culture;  to  the  shrewd  and  calculating  mind,  to 
such  orators  as  Khalid  heard,  it  is  a  trade  most  re- 
munerative; and  to  the  scientists,  or  rather  monists, 
it  is  the  aliment  with  which  they  nourish  the  per- 
versity of  their  preconceptions.  Second-hand  Jerry  did 
not  say  these  things  to  our  young  philosopher ;  for  had 
he  done  so,  Khalid,  now  become  edacious,  would  not 
have  experienced  those  dyspeptic  pangs  which  almost 
crushed  the  soul-fetus  in  him.  For  we  are  told  that 
he  is  as  sedulous  in  attending  these  atheistic  lectures 
as  he  is  in  flocking  with  his  fellow  citizens  to  hear  and 
cheer  the  idols  of  the  stump.  Once  he  took  Shakib  to 
the  Temple  of  Atheism,  but  the  Poet  seems  to  prefer 
his  Al-Mutanabby.  In  relating  of  Khalid's  wayward- 
ness he  says: 

"  Ever  since  we  quarrelled  about  Sibawai,  Khalid  and 
I  have  seldom  been  together.  And  he  had  become  so 
opinionated  that  I  was  glad  it  was  so.  Even  on  Sun- 
[64] 


IN    THE     EXCHANGE 

day  I  would  leave  him  alone  with  Im-Hanna,  and  re- 
turning in  the  evening,  I  would  find  him  either  reading 
or  burning  a  pamphlet.  Once  I  consented  to  accom- 
pany him  to  one  of  the  lectures  he  was  so  fond  of  at- 
tending. And  I  was  really  surprised  that  one  had  to 
pay  money  for  such  masquerades  of  eloquence  as  were 
exhibited  that  night  on  the  platform.  Yes,  it  occurred 
to  me  that  if  one  had  not  a  dollar  one  could  not  be- 
come an  atheist.  Billahl  I  was  scandalized.  For 
no  matter  how  irreverent  one  likes  to  pose,  one  ought 
to  reverence  at  least  his  Maker.  I  am  a  Christian  by 
the  grace  of  Allah,  and  my  ancestors  are  counted  among 
the  martyrs  of  the  Church.  And  thanks  to  my  par- 
ents, I  have  been  duly  baptized  and  confirmed.  For 
which  I  respect  them  the  more,  and  love  them.  Now, 
is  it  not  absurd  that  I  should  come  here  and  pay  a 
hard  dollar  to  hear  this  heretical  speechifier  Insult  my 
parents  and  my  God?  Better  the  ring  of  Al-Mutan- 
abbi's  scimitars  and  spears  than  the  clatter  of  these 
atheistical  bones! " 

From  which  wt  infer  that  Shakib  was  not  open  to 
reason  on  the  subject.  He  would  draw  his  friend 
away  from  the  verge  of  the  abyss  at  any  cost.  "  And 
this,"  continues  he,  "  did  not  require  much  effort. 
For  Khalid  like  myself  is  constitutionally  incapable  of 
denying  God.  We  are  from  the  land  in  which  God 
has  always  spoken  to  our  ancestors." 

And  the  argument  between  the  shrewd  verse-maker 

and    the   foolish    philosopher   finally   hinges   on    this: 

namely,  that  these  atheists  are  not  honest  investigators, 

that    in    their   sweeping    generalisations ,  as    in    their 

[65] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

speciosity  and  hypocrisy,  they  are  commercially  per- 
verse. And  Khalid  is  not  long  in  deciding  about  the 
matter.  He  meets  with  an  accident  —  and  accidents 
have  always  been  his  touchstones  of  success  —  which 
saves  his  soul  and  seals  the  fate  of  atheism. 

One  evening,  returning  from  a  ramble  in  the  Park, 
he  passes  by  the  Hall  where  his  favourite  Mountebank 
was  to  lecture  on  the  Gospel  of  Soap.  But  not  having 
the  price  of  admittance  that  evening,  and  being  anxious 
to  hear  the  orator  whom  he  had  idolised,  Khalid 
bravely  appeals  to  his  generosity  in  this  quaint  and 
touching  note:  "My  pocket,"  he  wrote,  "Is  empty 
and  my  mind  Is  hungry.  Might  I  come  to  your 
Table  to-night  as  a  beggar?"  And  the  man  at  the 
stage  door,  who  carries  the  note  to  the  orator,  returns 
in  a  trice,  and  tells  Khalid  to  lift  himself  off. 
Khalid  hesitates,  misunderstands;  and  a  heavy  hand  Is 
of  a  sudden  upon  him,  to  say  nothing  of  the  heavy 
boot. 

Ay,  and  that  boot  decided  him.  Atheism,  bald, 
bold,  niggardly,  brutal,  pretending  withal,  Khalid 
turns  from  Its  door  never  to  look  again  In  that  direc- 
tion. Shakib  Is  right.  "  These  people,"  he  growled, 
"  are  not  free  thinkers,  but  free  stinkards.  They  do 
need  soap  to  wash  their  hearts  and  souls." 

An  Idea  did  not  come  to  Khalid,  as  It  were,  by  in- 
stalments. In  his  puerperal  pains  of  mind  he  was 
subject  to  such  crises,  shaken  by  such  down  rushes  of 
light,  as  only  the  few  among  mortals  experience. 
(We  are  quoting  our  Scribe,  remember.)  And  in  cer- 
tain moments  he  had  more  faith  In  his  instincts  than 
[66] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

in  his  reason.  "  Our  instincts,"  says  he,  "  never  lie. 
They  are  honest,  and  though  they  be  sometimes 
bh'nd."  And  here,  he  seems  to  have  struck  the  truth. 
He  can  be  practical  too.  Honesty  in  thought,  in 
word,  in  deed  —  this  he  would  have  as  the  corner- 
stone of  his  truth.  Moral  rectitude  he  places  above 
all  the  cardinal  virtues,  natural  and  theological. 
"  Better  keep  away  from  the  truth,  O  Khalid,"  he 
writes,  "  better  remain  a  stranger  to  it  all  thy  life,  if 
thou  must  sully  it  with  the  slimy  fingers  of  a  merce- 
nary juggler."  Now,  these  brave  words,  we  can  not 
in  conscience  criticise.  But  we  venture  to  observe  that 
Khalid  must  have  had  in  mind  that  Gospel  of  Soap 
and  the  incident  at  the  stage  door. 

And  in  this,  we,  too,  rejoice.  We,  too,  forgetting 
the  dignity  of  our  position,  participate  of  the  revelry 
in  the  cellar  on  this  occasion.  For  our  editorialship, 
dear  Reader,  is  neither  American  nor  English.  We 
are  not  bound,  therefore,  to  maintain  in  any  degree  the 
algidity  and  indifference  of  our  confreres'  sublime 
attitude.  We  rejoice  In  the  spiritual  safety  of 
Khalid.  We  rejoice  that  he  and  Shakib  are  now 
reconciled.  For  the  reclaimed  runagate  is  now  even 
permitted  to  draw  on  the  poet's  balance  at  the  banker. 
Ay,  even  Khalid  can  dissimulate  when  he  needs  the 
cash.  For  with  the  assistance  of  second-hand  Jerry 
and  the  box-office  of  the  atheistical  jugglers,  he  had 
exhausted  his  little  saving.  He  would  not  even  go 
out  peddling  any  more.  And  when  Shakib  asks  him 
one  morning  to  shoulder  the  box  and  come  out,  he  re- 
plies: "I  have  a  little  business  with  it  here."  For 
[67] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

after  having  impeached  the  High  Priests  of  Atheism  he 
seems  to  have  turned  upon  himself.  We  translate 
from  the  K.  L.  MS. 

"When  I  w^as  disenchanted  with  atheism,  when  I 
saw  somewhat  of  the  meanness  and  selfishness  of  its 
protagonists,  I  began  to  doubt  in  the  honesty  of  men. 
If  these,  our  supposed  teachers,  are  so  vile,  so  merce- 
nar}'-,  so  false, —  why,  welcome  Juhannam!  But  the 
more  I  doubted  in  the  honesty  of  men,  the  more  did  I 
believe  that  honesty  should  be  the  cardinal  virtue  of 
the  soul.  I  go  so  far  in  this,  that  an  honest  thief  in 
my  eyes  Is  more  worthy  of  esteem  than  a  canting  ma- 
terialist or  a  hypocritical  free  thinker.  Still,  the  voice 
within  me  asked  if  Shakib  were  honest  in  his  dealings, 
If  I  were  honest  in  my  peddling?  Have  I  not  mis- 
represented my  gewgaws  as  the  atheist  misrepresents 
the  truth  ?  *  This  Is  made  in  the  Holy  Land,' — '  This 
Is  from  the  Holy  Sepulchre ' —  these  lies,  O  Khalid, 
are  upon  you.  And  what  is  the  difference  betw^een  the 
jewellery  you  passed  off  for  gold  and  the  arguments  of 
the  atheist-preacher?  Are  they  not  both  instruments 
of  deception,  both  designed  to  catch  the  dollar?  Yes, 
you  have  been,  O  Khalid,  as  mean,  as  mercenary,  as 
dishonest  as  those  canting  infidels. 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?  Will 
you  continue,  while  in  the  quagmires  yourself,  to 
point  contemptuously  at  those  standing  In  the  gutter? 
Will  you,  in  your  dishonesty,  dare  impeach  the  hon- 
esty of  men?  Are  you  not  going  to  make  a  resolu- 
tion now,  either  to  keep  silent  or  to  go  out  of  the 
quagmires  and  rise  to  the  mountain-heights?  Be  pure 
[68] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

yourself  first,  O  Khalid ;  then  try  to  spread  this  purity 
around  you  at  any  cost. 

**  Yes ;  that  is  why,  when  Shakib  asked  me  to  go  out 
peddling  one  day,  I  hesitated  and  finally  refused.  For 
atheism,  in  whose  false  dry  light  I  walked  a  parasang 
or  two,  did  not  only  betray  itself  to  me  as  a  sham,  but 
also  turned  my  mind  and  soul  to  the  sham  I  had 
shouldered  for  years.  From  the  peddling-box,  there- 
fore, I  turned  even  as  I  did  from  atheism.  Praised  be 
Allah,  who,  in  his  providential  care,  seemed  to  kick  me 
away  from  the  door  of  its  temple.  The  sham, 
although  effulgent  and  alluring,  was  as  brief  as  a  sum- 
mer afternoon." 

As  for  the  peddling-box,  our  Scribe  will  tell  of  its 
fate  in  the  following  Chapter. 


[69] 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN  THE  TWILIGHT  OF  AN  IDEA 

TT  is  Voltaire,  we  believe,  who  says  something  to 
the  effect  that  one's  mind  should  be  in  accordance 
with  one's  years.  That  is  why  an  academic  education 
nowadays  often  fails  of  its  purpose.  For  whether 
one's  mind  runs  ahead  of  one's  years,  or  one's  years 
ahead  of  one's  mind,  the  result  is  much  the  same;  it 
always  goes  ill  with  the  mind.  True,  knowledge  is 
power;  but  in  order  to  feel  at  home  with  it,  we  must 
be  constitutionally  qualified.  And  if  we  are  not,  it  is 
likely  to  give  the  soul  such  a  wrenching  as  to  deform 
it  forever.  Indeed,  how  many  of  us  go  through  life 
with  a  fatal  spiritual  or  intellectual  twist  which  could 
have  been  avoided  in  our  youth,  were  we  a  little  less 
wise.  The  young  philosophes,  the  products  of  the 
University  Machine  of  to-day,  who  go  about  with  a 
nosegay  of  -isms,  as  it  were,  in  their  lapels,  and  per- 
fume their  speech  with  the  bottled  logic  of  the  College 
Professor, —  are  not  most  of  them  incapable  of  hon- 
estly and  bravely  grappling  with  the  real  problems  of 
life?  And  does  not  a  systematic  education  mean  this, 
that  a  young  man  must  go  through  life  dragging  be- 
hind him  his  heavy  chains  of  set  ideas  and  stock  sys- 
tems, political,  social,  or  religious?  (Remember,  we 
are  translating  from  the  Khedivial  Library  MS.) 
[70] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 
The  author  continues: 

"  Whether  one  devour  the  knowledge  of  the  world  in  four 
years  or  four  nights,  the  process  of  assimilation  is  equally 
hindered,  if  the  mind  is  sealed  at  the  start  with  the  seal  of 
authority.  Ay,  we  can  not  be  too  careful  of  dogmatic  science 
in  our  youth;  for  dogmas  often  dam  certain  channels  of  the 
soul  through  which  we  might  have  reached  greater  treasures 
and  ascended  to  purer  heights.  A  young  man,  therefore, 
ought  to  be  let  alone.  There  is  an  infinite  possibility  of 
soul-power  in  every  one  of  us,  if  it  can  be  developed  freely, 
spontaneously,  without  discipline  or  restraint.  There  is,  too, 
an  infinite  possibility  of  beauty  in  every  soul,  if  it  can  be 
evoked  at  an  auspicious  moment  by  the  proper  word,  the 
proper  voice,  the  proper  touch.  That  is  why  I  say.  Go  thy 
way,  O  my  Brother.  Be  simple,  natural,  spontaneous,  cour- 
ageous, free.  Neither  anticipate  your  years,  nor  lag  child- 
like behind  them.  For  verily,  it  is  as  ridiculous  to  dye  the 
hair  white  as  to  dye  it  black.  Ah,  be  foolish  while  thou  art 
young;  it  is  never  too  late  to  be  wise.  Indulge  thy  fancy, 
follow  the  bent  of  thy  mind;  for  in  so  doing  thou  canst  not 
possibly  do  thyself  more  harm  than  the  disciplinarians  can 
do  thee.  Live  thine  own  life;  think  thine  own  thoughts; 
keep  developing  and  changing  until  thou  arrive  at  the  truth 
thyself.  An  ounce  of  it  found  by  thee  were  better  than  a 
ton  given  to  thee  gratis  by  one  who  would  enslave  thee.  Go 
thy  way,  O  my  Brother.  And  if  my  words  lead  thee  to 
Juhannam,  why,  there  will  be  a  great  surprise  for  thee. 
There  thou  wilt  behold  our  Maker  sitting  on  a  flaming  gla- 
cier waiting  for  the  like  of  thee.  And  he  will  take  thee  into 
his  arms  and  poke  thee  in  the  ribs,  and  together  you  will 
laugh  and  laugh,  until  that  glacier  become  a  garden  and 
thou  a  flower  therein.  Go  thy  way,  therefore ;  be  not  afraid. 
And  no  matter  how  many  tears  thou  sheddest  on  this  side, 
thou  wilt  surely  be  poked  in  the  ribs  on  the  other.  Go  —  thy 
—  but  —  let  Nature  be  thy  guide;  acquaint  thyself  with  one 
or  two  of  her  laws  ere  thou  runnest  wild." 

And  to  what  extent  did  this  fantastic  mystic  son  of 
a  Phoenician  acquaint  himself  with  Nature's  laws,  we 
do  not  know.     But  truly,  he  was  already  running  wild 
[71] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

in  the  great  cosmopoHs  of  New  York.  From  his  stivy 
cellar  he  issues  forth  into  the  plashing,  plangent  cur- 
rents of  city  life.  Before  he  does  this,  however,  he 
rids  himself  of  all  the  encumbrances  of  peddlery  which 
hitherto  have  been  his  sole  means  of  support.  His 
little  stock  of  crosses,  rosaries,  scapulars,  false  jewellery, 
mother-of-pearl  gewgaws,  and  such  like,  which  he  has 
on  the  little  shelf  in  the  cellar,  he  takes  down  one 
morning  —  but  we  will  let  our  Scribe  tell  the  story. 

"  My  love  for  Khalid,"  he  writes,  "  has  been 
severely  tried.  We  could  no  longer  agree  about  any- 
thing. He  had  become  such  a  dissenter  that  often 
would  he  take  the  wrong  side  of  a  question  if  only 
for  the  sake  of  bucking.  True,  he  ceased  to  frequent 
the  cellar  of  second-hand  Jerry,  and  the  lectures  of  the 
infidels  he  no  longer  attended.  We  were  in  accord 
about  atheism,  therefore,  but  in  riotous  discord  about 
many  other  things,  chief  among  which  was  the  pro- 
priety, the  necessity,  of  doing  something  to  replenish 
his  balance  at  the  banker.  For  he  was  now  impecuni- 
ous, and  withal  importunate.  Of  a  truth,  what  I  had 
I  was  always  ready  to  share  with  him;  but  for  his 
own  good  I  advised  him  to  take  up  the  peddling-box 
again.  I  reminded  him  of  his  saying  once,  *  Peddling 
is  a  healthy  and  profitable  business.'  *  Come  out,'  I 
insisted,  '  and  though  it  be  for  the  exercise.  Walking 
is  the  whetstone  of  thought.' 

"  One  evening  we  quarrelled  about  this,  and   Im- 

Hanna   sided    with    me.     She    rated    Khalid,    saying, 

'  You're  a  good-for-nothing  loafer ;  you  don't  deserve 

the  mojadderah  you  eat.'     And  I  remember  how  she 

[72] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

took  me  aside  that  evening  and  whispered  something 
about  books,  and  Khalid's  head,  and  Mar-Kizhayiah.^ 
Indeed,  Im-Hanna  seriously  beh'eved  that  Khalid 
should  be  taken  to  Mar-Kizhayiah.  She  did  not  know 
that  New  York  was  full  of  such  institutions.^  Her 
scolding,  however,  seemed  to  have  more  effect  on 
Khalid  than  my  reasoning.  And  consenting  to  go  out 
with  me,  he  got  up  the  following  morning,  took  down 
his  stock  from  the  shelf,  every  little  article  of  it  —  he 
left  nothing  there  —  and  packed  all  into  his  peddling- 
box.  He  then  squeezed  into  the  bottom  drawer,  which 
he  had  filled  with  scapulars,  the  bottle  with  a  little  of 
the  Stuff  In  it.  For  we  were  in  accord  about  this,  that 
in  New  York  whiskey  is  better  than  arak.  And  we 
both  took  a  nip  now  and  then.  So  I  thought  the  bottle 
was  in  order.  But  why  he  placed  his  bank  book,  which 
was  no  longer  worth  a  straw,  into  that  bottom  drawer, 
I  could  not  guess.  With  these  preparations,  how- 
ever, we  shouldered  our  boxes,  and  in  an  hour  we 
were  in  the  suburbs.  We  foot  it  along  then,  until  we 
reach  a  row  of  cottages  not  far  from  the  railway  sta- 
tion, *  Will  you  knock  at  one  of  these  doors,'  I  asked. 
And  he,  '  I  do  not  feel  like  chaffering  and  bargaining 
this  morning.'  *  Why  then  did  you  come  out,'  I 
urged.     And  he,  in  an  air  of  nonchalance,  '  Only  for 

^  A  monastery  in  Mt.  Lebanon,  a  sort  of  Bedlam,  where 
the  exorcising  monks  beat  the  devil  out  of  one's  head  with 
clouted   shoes. —  Editor. 

2  And  the  doctors  here  practise  in  the  name  of  science  what 
the  exorcising  monks  practise  in  the  name  of  religion.  The 
poor  devil,  or  patient,  in  either  case  is  done  to  death. — 
Editor. 

[73] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

the  walk.'  And  so,  we  pursued  our  way  in  the  Bronx, 
until  we  reached  one  of  our  favourite  spots,  where  a 
sycamore  tree  seemed  to  invite  us  to  its  ample  shade. 

"  Here,  Khalid,  absent-minded,  laid  down  his  box 
and  sat  upon  it,  and  I  stretched  my  limbs  on  the  grass. 
But  of  a  sudden,  he  jumped  up,  opened  the  bottom 
drawer  of  his  case,  and  drew  from  it  the  bottle.  It  is 
quite  in  order  now,  I  mused ;  but  ere  I  had  enjoyed  the 
thought,  Khalid  had  placed  his  box  at  a  little  distance, 
and,  standing  there  beside  it,  bottle  in  hand,  delivered 
himself  in  a  semi-solemn,  semi-mocking  manner  of  the 
following:  'This  is  the  oil,'  I  remember  him  saying, 
'  with  which  I  anoint  thee  —  the  extreme  unction  I 
apply  to  thy  soul.'  And  he  poured  the  contents  of  the 
bottle  into  the  bottom  drawer  and  over  the  boX;  and 
applied  to  it  a  match.  The  bottle  was  filled  with 
kerosene,  and  in  a  jiffy  the  box  was  covered  with  the 
flame.  Yes;  and  so  quickly,  so  neatly  it  was  done, 
that  I  could  not  do  aught  to  prevent  it.  The  match 
was  applied  to  what  I  thought  at  first  was  whiskey, 
and  I  was  left  in  speechless  amazement.  He  would 
not  even  help  me  to  save  a  few  things  from  the  fire. 
I  conjured  him  in  the  name  of  Allah,  but  in  vain.  I 
clamoured  and  remonstrated,  but  to  no  purpose.  And 
when  I  asked  him  why  he  had  done  this,  he  asked  me 
in  reply,  '  And  why  have  you  not  done  the  same  ? 
Now,  methinks  I  deserve  my  mojadderah.  And  not 
until  you  do  likewise,  will  you  deserve  yours,  O 
Shakib.  Here  are  the  lies,  now  turned  to  ashes,  which 
brought  me  my  bread  and  are  still  bringing  you  yours. 
Here  are  our  instruments  of  deception,  our  poisoned 
[74] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

sources  of  lucre.  I  am  most  happy  now,  O  Shaklb. 
And  I  shall  endeavour  to  keep  my  blood  in  circulation 
by  better,  purer  means.'  And  he  took  me  thereupon 
by  the  shoulders,  looked  into  my  face,  then  pushed  me 
away,  laughing  the  laugh  of  the  hasheesh-smokers. 

"  Indeed,  Im-Hanna  was  right.  Khalid  had  become 
too  odd,  too  queer  to  be  sane.  Needless  to  say,  I  was 
not  prone  to  follow  his  example  at  that  time.  Nor  am 
I  now.  Mashallah!  Lacking  the  power  and  mad- 
ness to  set  fire  to  the  whole  world,  it  were  folly,  in- 
deed, to  begin  with  one's  self.  I  believe  I  had  as  much 
right  to  exaggerate  in  peddling  as  I  had  in  writing 
verse.  My  license  to  heighten  the  facts  holds  good  in 
either  case.  And  to  some  extent,  every  one,  a  poet 
be  he  or  a  cobbler,  enjoys  such  a  license.  I  told 
Khalid  that  the  logical  and  most  efFective  course  to 
pursue,  in  view  of  his  rigorous  morality,  would  be  to 
pour  a  gallon  of  kerosene  over  his  own  head  and  fire 
himself  out  of  existence.  For  the  instruments  of  de- 
ception and  debasement  are  not  in  the  peddling-box, 
but  rather  in  his  heart.  No;  I  did  not  think  peddling 
was  as  bad  as  other  trades.  Here  at  least,  the  means 
of  deception  were  reduced  to  a  minimum.  And  of  a 
truth,  if  ever5'body  were  to  judge  themselves  as  strictly 
as  Khalid,  who  would  escape  burning?  So  I  turned 
from  him  that  day  fully  convinced  that  my  little  stock 
of  holy  goods  was  innocent,  and  my  balance  at  the 
banker's  was  as  pure  as  my  rich  neighbour's.  And  he 
turned  from  me  fully  convinced,  I  believe,  that  I  was 
an  unregenerate  rogue.  Ay,  and  when  I  was  knock- 
ing at  the  door  of  one  of  my  customers,  he  was  walk- 
[75] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

ing  away  briskly,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back, 
and  his  eyes,  as  usual,  scouring  the  horizon." 

And  on  that  horizon  are  the  gilded  domes  and  smok- 
ing chimneys  of  the  seething  city.  Leaving  his  last 
friend  and  his  last  burden  behind,  he  will  give  civilised 
life  another  trial.  Loafer  and  tramp  that  he  is!  For 
even  the  comforts  of  the  grand  cable-railway  he  spurns, 
and  foots  it  from  the  Bronx  down  to  his  cellar  near 
Battery  Park,  thus  cutting  the  city  in  half  and  giving 
one  portion  to  Izrail  and  the  other  to  Iblis.  But  not 
being  quite  ready  himself  for  either  of  these  winged 
Furies,  he  keeps  to  his  cellar.  He  would  tarry  here  a 
while,  if  but  to  carry  out  a  resolution  he  has  made. 
True,  Khalid  very  seldom  resolves  upon  anything;  but 
when  he  does  make  a  resolution,  he  is  even  willing  to 
be  carried  off  by  the  effort  to  carry  it  out.  And  now, 
he  would  solve  this  problem  of  earning  a  living  in  the 
great  city  by  honest  means.  For  in  the  city,  at  least, 
success  well  deserves  the  compliments  which  those  who 
fail  bestow  upon  it.  What  Montaigne  said  of  great- 
ness, therefore,  Khalid  must  have  said  of  success.  If 
we  can  not  attain  it,  let  us  denounce  it.  And  in  what 
terms  does  he  this,  O  merciful  Allah!  We  translate 
a  portion  of  the  apostrophe  in  the  K.  L.  MS.,  and 
not  the  bitterest,  by  any  means. 

"  O  Success,"  the  infuriated  failure  exclaims,  "  how 
like  the  Gorgon  of  the  Arabian  Nights  thou  art!  For 
does  not  every  one  whom  thou  favorest  undergo  a  piti- 
ful transformation  even  from  the  first  bedding  with 
thee?  Does  not  everything  suffer  from  thy  look,  thy 
touch,  thy  breath?  The  rose  loses  its  perfume,  the 
[76] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

grape-vine  its  clusters,  the  bulbul  its  wings,  the  dawn 
its  h'ght  and  glamour.  O  Success,  our  lords  of  power 
to-day  are  thy  slaves,  thy  helots,  our  kings  of  wealth. 
Every  one  grinds  for  thee,  every  one  for  thee  lives  and 
dies.  .  .  .  Thy  palaces  of  silver  and  gold  are 
reared  on  the  souls  of  men.  Thy  throne  is  mortised 
with  their  bones,  cemented  with  their  blood.  Thou 
ravenous  Gorgon,  on  what  bankruptcies  thou  art  fed, 
on  what  failures,  on  what  sorrows!  The  railroads 
sweeping  across  the  continents  and  the  steamers  plough- 
ing through  the  seas,  are  laden  with  sacrifices  to  thee. 
Ay,  and  millions  of  innocent  children  are  torn  from 
their  homes  and  from  their  schools  to  be  offered  to 
thee  at  the  sacrificial-stone  of  the  Factories  and  Mills. 
The  cultured,  too,  and  the  wise,  are  counted  among 
thy  slaves.  Even  the  righteous  surrender  themselves 
to  thee  and  are  willing  to  undergo  that  hideous  trans- 
formation. O  Success,  what  an  infernal  litany  thy 
votaries  and  high-priests  are  chanting  to  thee.  .  .  . 
Thou  ruthless  Gorgon,  what  crimes  thou  art  commit- 
ting, and  what  crimes  are  being  committed  in  thy 
name! " 

From  which  it  is  evident  that  Khalid  does  not  wish 
for  success.  Khalid  is  satisfied  if  he  can  maintain  his 
hold  on  the  few  spare  feet  he  has  in  the  cellar,  and  con- 
tinue to  replenish  his  little  store  of  lentils  and  olive  oil. 
For  he  would  as  lief  be  a  victim  of  success,  he  assures 
us,  as  to  forego  his  mojadderah.  And  still  having  this, 
which  he  considers  a  luxury,  he  is  willing  to  turn  his 
hand  at  anything,  if  he  can  but  preserve  inviolate  the 
integrity  of  his  soul  and  the  freedom  of  his  mind. 
[77] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

These  are  a  few  of  the  pet  terms  of  Khalid.  And  in 
as  much  as  he  can  continue  to  repeat  them  to  himself, 
he  is  supremely  content.  He  can  be  a  menial,  if  while 
cringing  before  his  superiors,  he  were  permitted  to 
chew  on  his  pet  illusions.  A  few  days  before  he 
burned  his  peddling-box,  he  had  read  Epictetus,  And 
the  thought  that  such  a  great  soul  maintained  its 
purity,  its  integrity,  even  in  bonds,  encouraged  and 
consoled  him.  "  How  can  they  hurt  me,"  he  asks,  "  if 
spiritually  I  am  far  from  them,  far  above  them? 
They  can  do  no  more  than  place  gilt  buttons  on  my 
coat  and  give  me  a  cap  to  replace  this  slouch.  There- 
fore, I  will  serve.  I  will  be  a  slave,  even  like  Epic- 
tetus." 

And  here  we  must  interpose  a  little  of  our  skepti- 
cism, if  but  to  gratify  an  habitual  craving  in  us.  We 
do  not  doubt  that  Khalid's  self-sufficiency  is  remark- 
able ;  that  his  courage  —  on  paper  —  is  quite  above  the 
common ;  that  the  grit  and  stay  he  shows  are  wonder- 
ful; that  his  lofty  aspirations,  so  indomitable  in  their 
onwardness,  are  great:  but  we  only  ask,  having  thus 
fortified  his  soul,  how  is  he  to  fortify  his  stomach? 
He  is  going  to  work,  to  be  a  menial,  to  earn  a  living 
by  honest  means?  Ah,  Khalid,  Khalid!  Did  you  not 
often  bestow  a  furtive  glance  on  some  one  else's  check- 
book? Did  you  not  even  exercise  therein  your  skill  in 
calculation?  If  the  bank,  where  Shakib  deposits  his 
little  saving,  failed,  would  you  be  so  indomitable,  so 
dogged  in  your  resolution?  Would  you  not  soften  a 
trifle,  loosen  a  whit,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  your  blood- 
circulation  ? 

[78] 


IN     THE     EXCHANGE 

Indeed,  Shakib  has  become  a  patron  to  Khalid. 
Shakib  the  poet,  who  himself  should  have  a  patron,  is 
always  ready  to  share  his  last  dollar  with  his  lov- 
ing, though  cantankerous  friend.  And  this,  in  spite  of 
all  the  disagreeable  features  of  a  friendship  which  in 
the  Syrian  Colony  was  become  proverbial.  But 
Khalid  now  takes  up  the  newspapers  and  scans  the 
Want  Columns  for  hours.  The  result  being  a  clerk- 
ship in  a  lawyer's  office.  Nay,  an  apprenticeship;  for 
the  legal  profession,  it  seems,  had  for  a  while  engaged 
his  serious  thoughts. 

And  this  of  all  the  professions  is  the  one  on  which 
he  would  graft  his  scion  of  lofty  morality?  Surely, 
there  be  plenty  of  fuel  for  a  conflagration  in  a  lawyer's 
office.  Such  rows  of  half-calf  tomes,  such  piles  of 
legal  documents,  all  designed  to  combat  dishonesty  and 
fraud,  "  and  all  immersed  in  them,  and  nourished  and 
maintained  by  them."  In  what  a  sorry  condition  will 
your  Morality  issue  out  of  these  bogs!  A  lawyer's 
clerk,  we  are  informed,  can  not  maintain  his  hold  on 
his  clerkship,  if  he  does  not  learn  to  blink.  That  is 
why  Khalid  is  not  long  in  serving  papers,  copying 
summonses,  and  searching  title-deeds.  In  this  law>'er's 
office  he  develops  traits  altogether  foreign  to  his  nature. 
He  even  becomes  a  quidnunc,  prying  now  and  then 
into  the  personal  affairs  of  his  superiors.  Ay,  and  he 
dares  once  to  suggest  to  his  employer  a  new  method  of 
dealing  with  the  criminals  among  his  clients.  Withal, 
Khalid  is  slow,  slower  than  the  law  itself.  If  he  goes 
out  to  serve  a  summons  he  does  not  return  for  a  day. 
If  he  is  sent  to  search  title-deeds,  he  does  not  show  up 
[79] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

in  the  office  for  a  week.  And  often  he  would  lose 
himself  in  the  Park  surrounding  the  Register's  Oiiice, 
pondering  on  his  theory  of  immanent  morality.  He 
would  sit  down  on  one  of  those  benches,  which  are  the 
anchors  of  loafers  of  another  type,  his  batch  of  papers 
beside  him,  and  watch  the  mad  crowds  coming  and 
going,  running,  as  it  were,  between  two  fires.  These 
puckered  people  are  the  living,  moving  chambers  of 
sleeping  souls. 

Khalid  was  always  glad  to  come  to  this  Register's 
Office.  For  though  the  searching  of  title-deeds  be  a 
mortal  process,  the  loafing  margin  of  the  working  hour 
could  be  extended  imperceptibly,  and  without  hazard- 
ing his  or  his  employer's  interest.  The  following 
piece  of  speculative  fantasy  and  insight  must  have  been 
thought  out  when  he  should  have  been  searching  title- 
deeds. 

"  This  Register's  Office,"  it  is  written  in  the  K.  L. 
MS.,  "  is  the  very  bulwark  of  Society.  It  is  the  foun- 
dation on  which  the  Trust  Companies,  the  Courts,  and 
the  Prisons  are  reared.  Your  codes  are  blind  without 
the  miraculous  torches  which  this  Office  can  light. 
Your  judges  can  not  propound  the  '  laur'  —  I  beg  your 
pardon,  the  law  —  without  the  aid  of  these  musty, 
smelling,  dilapidated  tomes.  Ay,  these  are  the  very 
constables  of  the  realm,  and  without  them  there  can 
be  no  realm,  no  legislators,  and  no  judges.  Strong, 
club-bearing  constables,  these  Liebers,  standing  on  the 
boundary  lines,  keeping  peace  between  brothers  and 
neighbours. 

"  Here,  in  these  Liebers  is  an  authority  which  never 
[80] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

fails,  never  dies  —  an  authority  which  willy-nilly  we 
obey  and  in  which  we  place  unbounded  trust.  In  any 
one  of  these  Registers  is  a  potentiality  which  can  always 
worst  the  quibbles  and  quiddities  of  lawyers  and  ward 
off  the  miserable  technicalities  of  the  law.  Any  of 
them,  when  called  upon,  can  go  into  court  and  dictate 
to  the  litigants  and  the  attorneys,  the  jury  and  the 
judge.  They  are  the  deceased  witnesses  come  to  life. 
And  without  them,  the  judges  are  helpless,  the  marshals 
and  sheriffs  too.  Ay,  and  what  without  them  would 
be  the  state  of  our  real-estate  interests?  Abolish  your 
constabulary  force,  and  your  police  force,  and  with 
these  muniments  of  power,  these  dumb  but  far-seeing 
agents  of  authority  and  intelligence,  you  could  still 
maintain  peace  and  order.  But  burn  you  this  Regis- 
ter's Office,  and  before  the  last  Lieber  turn  to  -ashes, 
ere  the  last  flame  of  the  conflagration  die  out,  you  will 
have  to  call  forth,  not  only  your  fire  squads,  but  your 
police  force  and  even  your  soldiery,  to  extinguish  other 
fires  difFerent  in  nature,  but  more  devouring  —  and  as 
many  of  them  as  there  are  boundary  lines  in  the  land." 

And  we  now  come  to  the  gist  of  the  matter. 

"  What  wealth  of  moral  truth,"  he  continues,  "  do  we  find 
in  these  greasy,  musty  pages.  When  one  deeds  a  piece  of 
property,  he  deeds  with  it  something  more  valuable,  more 
enduring.  He  deeds  with  it  an  undying  human  intelligence 
which  goes  down  to  posterity,  saying,  Respect  my  will ;  be- 
lieve in  me ;  and  convey  this  respect  and  this  belief  to  your 
offspring.  Ay,  the  immortal  soul  breathes  in  a  deed  as  in  a 
great  book.  And  the  implicit  trust  we  place  in  a  musty 
parchment,  is  the  mystic  outcome  of  the  blind  faith,  or  rather 
the  far-seeing  faith  which  our  ancestors  had  in  the  morality 

[8i] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

and  intelligence  of  coming  generations.  For  what  avails 
their  deeds  if  they  are  not  respected  ?  .  .  .  We  are  in- 
debted to  our  forbears,  therefore,  not  for  the  miserable  piece 
of  property  they  bequeath  us,  but  for  the  confidence  and 
trust,  the  faith  and  hope  they  had  in  our  innate  or  immanent 
morality  and  intelligence.  The  will  of  the  dead  is  law  for 
the  living." 

Are  we  then  to  look  upon  Khalid  as  having  come 
out  of  that  Office  with  soiled  fingers  only?  Or  has 
the  young  philosopher  abated  in  his  clerkship  the  in- 
tensity of  his  moral  views?  Has  he  not  assisted  his 
employer  in  the  legal  game  of  quieting  titles?  Has  he 
not  acquired  a  little  of  the  delusive  plausibilities  of 
lawyers?  Shakib  throws  no  light  on  these  questions. 
We  only  know  that  the  clerkship  or  rather  apprentice- 
ship was  only  held  for  a  season.  Indeed,  Khalid  must 
have  recoiled  from  the  practice.  Or  in  his  reckless- 
ness, not  to  say  obtrusion,  he  must  have  been  out- 
rageous enough  to  express  in  the  office  of  the  honour- 
able attorney,  or  in  the  neighbourhood  thereof,  his  views 
about  pettifogging  and  such  like,  that  the  said  honour- 
able attorney  was  under  the  painful  necessity  of  asking 
him  to  stay  home.  Nay,  the  young  Syrian  was  dis- 
charged. Or  to  put  it  in  a  term  adequate  to  the  man- 
ner in  which  this  was  done,  he  was  "  fired."  Now, 
Khalid  betakes  him  back  to  his  cellar,  and  thrumming 
his  lute-strings,  lights  up  the  oppressive  gloom  with 
Arabic  song  and  music. 


[82] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WITH   THE    HURIS 

l^ROM  the  house  of  law  the  dervish  Khalld  wends 
his  way  to  that  of  science,  and  from  the  house  of 
science  he  passes  on  to  that  of  metaphysics.  His  staff 
in  hand,  his  wallet  hung  on  his  shoulder,  his  silver 
cigarette  case  in  his  pocket,  patient,  confident,  content, 
he  makes  his  way  from  one  place  to  another.  Unlike 
his  brother  dervishes,  he  is  clean  and  proud  of  it,  too. 
He  knocks  at  this  or  that  door,  makes  his  wish  known 
to  the  servant  or  the  mistress,  takes  the  crumbs  given 
him,  and  not  infrequently  gives  his  prod  to  the  dogs. 
In  the  vestibule  of  one  of  the  houses  of  spiritism,  he 
tarries  a  spell  and  parleys  with  the  servant.  The  Mis- 
tress, a  fair-looking,  fair-spoken  dame  of  seven  lus- 
trums or  more,  issues  suddenly  from  her  studio,  in  a 
curiously  designed  black  velvet  dressing-gown;  she  is 
drawn  to  the  door  by  the  accent  of  the  foreigner's 
speech  and  the  peculiar  cadence  of  his  voice.  They 
meet:  and  magnetic  currents  from  his  dark  eyes  and 
her  eyes  of  blue,  flow  and  fuse.  They  speak:  and  the 
lady  asks  the  stranger  if  he  w^ould  not  serve  instead 
of  begging.  And  he  protests,  "  I  am  a  Dervish  at 
the  door  of  Allah."  "  And  I  am  a  Spirit  in  Allah's 
house,"  she  rejoins.  They  enter:  and  the  parley  in 
the  vestibule  is  followed  by  a  tete-a-tete  in  the  parlour 
[83] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

and  another  in  the  dining-room.  They  agree:  and  the 
stranger  is  made  a  member  of  the  Spiritual  Household, 
which  now  consists  of  her  and  him,  the  Medium  and 
the  Dervish. 

Now,  this  fair-spoken  dame,  who  dotes  on  the  occult 
and  exotic,  delights  in  the  aroma  of  Khalid's  cigarettes 
and  Khalid's  fancy.  And  that  he  might  feel  at  ease, 
she  begins  by  assuring  him  that  they  have  met  and 
communed  many  times  ere  now,  that  they  have  been 
friends  under  a  preceding  and  long  vanished  embodi- 
ment. Which  vagary  Khalid  seems  to  countenance  by 
referring  to  the  infinite  power  of  Allah,  in  the  com- 
pass of  which  nothing  is  impossible.  And  with  these 
mystical  circumlocutions  of  ceremony,  they  plunge  into 
an  intimacy  which  is  bordered  by  the  metaphysical  on 
one  side,  and  the  physical  on  the  other.  For  though 
the  Medium  is  at  the  threshold  of  her  climacteric, 
Khalid  afterwards  tells  Shakib  that  there  be  something 
in  her  eyes  and  limbs  which  always  seem  to  be  waxing 
young.  And  of  a  truth,  the  American  woman,  of  all 
others,  knows  best  how  to  preserve  her  beauty  from 
the  ravages  of  sorrow  and  the  years.  That  is  why, 
we  presume,  in  calling  him,  "  child,"  she  does  not  per- 
mit him  to  call  her,  "  mother."  Indeed,  the  Medium 
and  the  Dervish  often  jest,  and  somewhiles  mix  the 
frivolous  with  the  mysterious. 

We  would  still  follow  our  Scribe  here,  were  it  not 
that  his  pruriency  often  reaches  the  edge.  He  speaks 
of  "  the  liaison  "  with  all  the  rude  simplicity  and  frank- 
ness of  the  Arabian  Nights,  And  though,  as  the  Mo- 
hammedans say,  "  To  the  pure  everything  is  pure,"  and 
[84] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

again,  "Who  quotes  a  heresy  Is  not  guilty  of  it"; 
nevertheless,  we  do  not  feel  warranted  in  rending  the 
veil  of  the  reader's  prudery,  no  matter  how  transparent 
it  might  be.  We  believe,  however,  that  the  pruriency 
of  Orientals,  like  the  prudery  of  Occidentals,  is  in  fact 
only  an  appearance.  On  both  sides  there  is  a  display 
of  what  might  be  called  verbal  virtue  and  verbal  vice. 
And  on  both  sides,  the  exaggerations  are  configured  in 
a  harmless  pose.  Be  this  as  it  may,  we  at  least,  shall 
withhold  from  Shakib's  lasciviousness  the  English 
dress  it  seeks  at  our  hand. 

We  note,  however,  that  Khalid  now  visits  him  in 
the  cellar  only  when  he  craves  a  dish  of  mojadderah; 
that  he  and  the  Medium  are  absorbed  in  the  contem- 
plation of  the  Unseen,  though  not,  perhaps,  of  the  Im- 
palpable; that  they  gallivant  in  the  Parks,  attend  Bo- 
hemian dinners,  and  frequent  the  Don't  Worry  Circles 
of  Metaphysical  Societies;  that  they  make  long  expe- 
ditions together  to  the  Platonic  North-pole  and  back 
to  the  torrid  regions  of  Swinburne;  and  that  together 
they  perform  their  zikr  and  drink  at  the  same  fountain 
of  ecstasy  and  devotion.  Withal,  the  Dervish,  who 
now  wears  his  hair  long  and  grows  his  finger  nails 
like  a  Brahmin,  is  beginning  to  have  some  manners. 

The  Medium,  nevertheless,  withholds  from  him^ 
the  secret  of  her  art.  If  he  desires,  he  can  attend  the 
seances  like  every  other  stranger.  O'nce  Khalid,  who 
would  not  leave  anything  unprobed,  insisted,  impor- 
tuned ;  he  could  not  see  any  reason  for  her  conduct. 
Why  should  they  not  work  together  in  Tiptolog}',  as 
In  Physiology  and  Metaphvsics?  And  one  morning, 
[85] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

dervish-like,  he  wraps  himself  in  his  aba,  and,  calling 
upon  Allah  to  witness,  takes  a  rose  from  the  vase  on 
the  table,  angrily  plucks  its  petals,  and  strews  them  on 
the  carpet.  Which  portentous  sign  the  Medium  un- 
derstands and  hastens  to  minister  her  palliatives. 

"  No,  Child,  you  shall  not  go,"  she  begs  and  suppli- 
cates; "  listen  to  me,  are  we  not  together  all  the  time? 
Why  not  leave  me  alone  then  with  the  spirits?  One 
day  you  shall  know  all,  believe  me.  Come,  sit  here," 
stroking  her  palm  on  her  lap,  "  and  listen.  I  shall 
give  up  this  tiptology  business  very  soon ;  you  and  I 
shall  overturn  the  table.  Yes,  Child,  I  am  on  the 
point  of  succumbing  under  an  awful  something.  So, 
don't  ask  me  about  the  spooks  any  more.  Promise  not 
to  torment  me  thus  any  more.  And  one  day  we  shall 
travel  together  in  the  Orient;  we  shall  visit  the  ruins 
of  vanished  kingdoms  and  creeds.  Ah,  to  be  In 
Palmyra  with  you!  Do  you  know,  Child,  I  am  des- 
tined to  be  a  Beduin  queen.  The  throne  of  Zenobia 
is  mine,  and  yours  too,  if  you  will  be  good.  We  shall 
resuscitate   the  glory  of  the  kingdom  of  the  desert." 

To  all  of  which  Khalid  acquiesces  by  referring  as  is 
his  wont  to  the  infinite  wisdom  of  Allah,  in  whose  all- 
seeing  eye  nothing  is  impossible. 

And  thus,  apparently  satisfied,  he  takes  the  cigarette 
which  she  had  lighted  for  him,  and  lights  for  her  an- 
other from  his  own.  But  the  smoke  of  two  cigarettes 
dispels  not  the  threatening  cloud ;  it  only  conceals  it 
from  view.  For  they  dine  together  at  a  Bohemian 
Club  that  evening,  where  Khalid  meets  a  woman  of 
rare  charms.  And  she  invites  him  to  her  studio.  The 
[86] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

Medium,  who  is  at  first  indifferent,  finally  warns  her 
callow  child.  "  That  woman  is  a  writer,"  she  ex- 
plains, "  and  writers  are  always  in  search  of  what  they 
call  *  copy.'  She  in  particular  is  a  huntress  of  male 
curiosities,  originales,  whom  she  takes  into  her  favour 
and  ultimately  surrenders  them  to  the  reading  public. 
So  be  careful."  But  Khalid  hearkens  not.  For  the 
writer,  whom  he  afterwards  calls  a  flighter,  since  she, 
too,  "  like  the  van  of  the  brewer  only  skims  the  surface 
of  things,"  is,  in  fact,  younger  than  the  Medium.  Ay, 
this  woman  is  even  beautiful  —  to  behold,  at  least. 
So  the  Dervish,  a  captive  of  her  charms,  knocks  at  the 
door  of  her  studio  one  evening  and  enters.  Ah,  this 
then  is  a  studio!  "  I  am  destined  to  know  everything, 
and  to  see  everything,"  he  says  to  himself,  smiling  in 
his  heart. 

The  charming  hostess,  in  a  Japanese  kimono  receives 
him  somewhat  orientally,  offering  him  the  divan, 
which  he  occupies  alone  for  a  spell.  He  is  then  laden 
with  a  huge  scrap-book  containing  press  notices  and 
reviews  of  her  many  novels.  These,  he  is  asked  to  go 
through  while  she  prepares  the  tea.  Which  is  a  mor- 
tal task  for  the  Dervish  in  the  presence  of  the  En- 
chantress. Alas,  the  tea  is  long  in  the  making,  and 
when  the  scrap-book  is  laid  aside,  she  reinforces  him 
with  a  lot  of  magazines  adorned  with  stories  of  the 
short  and  long  and  middling  size,  from  her  fertile  pen. 
"  These  are  beautiful,"  says  he,  in  glancing  over  a 
few  pages,  "  but  no  matter  how  you  try,  you  can  not 
with  your  pen  surpass  your  own  beauty.  The  charm 
of  your  literary  style  can  not  hold  a  candle  to  the 
[87] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

charm  of  your  —  permit  me  to  read  your  hand." 
And  laying  down  the  magazine,  he  takes  up  her  hand 
and  presses  it  to  his  lips.  In  like  manner,  he  tries  to 
read  somewhat  in  the  face,  but  the  Enchantress  pro- 
tests and  smiles.  In  which  case  the  smile  renders  the 
protest  null  and  void. 

Henceforth,  the  situation  shall  be  trying  even  to 
the  Dervish  who  can  eat  live  coals.  He  oscillates  for 
some  while  between  the  Medium  and  the  Enchantress, 
but  finds  the  effort  rather  straining.  The  first  climax, 
however,  is  reached,  and  our  Scribe  thinks  it  too  sad 
for  words.  He  himself  sheds  a  few  rheums  with  the 
fair-looking,  fair-spoken  Dame,  and  dedicates  to  her  a 
few  rhymes.  Her  magnanimity,  he  tells  us,  is  unex- 
ampled, and  her  fatalism  pathetic.  For  when  Khalid 
severs  himself  from  the  Spiritual  Household,  she  kisses 
him  thrice,  saying,  "  Go,  Child ;  Allah  brought  you  to 
me,  and  Allah  will  bring  you  again."  Khalid  refers, 
as  usual,  to  the  infinite  wisdom  of  the  Almighty,  and, 
taking  his  handkerchief  from  his  pocket,  wipes  the 
tears  that  fell  —  from  her  eyes  over  his.  He  passes 
out  of  the  vestibule,  silent  and  sad,  musing  on  the 
time  he  first  stood  there  as  a  beggar. 

Now,  the  horizon  of  the  Enchantress  is  un- 
obstructed. Khalid  is  there  alone;  and  her  free  love 
can  freely  pass  on  from  him  to  another.  And  such 
messages  they  exchange!  Such  evaporations  of  the  in- 
sipidities of  free  love!  Khalid  again  takes  up  with 
Shakib,  from  whom  he  does  not  conceal  anything. 
The  epistles  are  read  by  both,  and  sometimes  replied  to 
by  both !  And  she,  in  an  effort  to  seem  Oriental,  calls 
[88] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

the  Dervish,  "  My  Syrian  Rose,"  "  My  Desert 
Flower,"  "  My  Beduin  Boy,"  et  cetera,  always  clos- 
ing her  message  with  either  a  strip  of  Syrian  sky 
or  a  camel  load  of  the  narcissus.  Ah,  but  not  thus 
will  the  play  close.  True,  Khalid  alone  adorns 
her  studio  for  a  time,  or  rather  adores  in  it; 
he  alone  accompanies  her  to  Bohemia.  But  the  Der- 
vish, who  was  always  going  wrong  in  Bohemia, — 
always  at  the  door  of  the  Devil, —  ventures  one  night 
to  escort  another  woman  to  her  studio.  Ah,  those 
studios!  The  Enchantress  on  hearing  of  the  crime 
lights  the  fire  under  her  cauldron.  "  Double,  double, 
toil  and  trouble !  "  She  then  goes  to  the  telephone  — 
g-r-r-r-r  you  swine  —  you  Phoenician  murex  —  she 
hangs  up  the  receiver,  and  stirs  the  cauldron. 
"  Double,  double,  toil  and  trouble!  "  But  the  Dervish 
writes  her  an  extraordinary  letter,  In  which  we  sus- 
pect the  pen  of  our  Scribe,  and  from  which  we  can  but 
transcribe  the  following: 

"  You  found  in  me  a  vacant  heart,"  he  pleads,  "  and  you 
occupied  it.  The  divan  therein  is  yours,  yours  alone.  Nor 
shall  I  ever  permit  a  chance  caller,  an  intruder,  to  exasper- 
ate you.  .  .  .  My  breast  is  a  stronghold  in  which  you 
are  well  fortified.  How  then  can  any  one  disturb  you? 
.  .  .  How  can  I  turn  from  myself  against  myself?  Some- 
what of  you,  the  best  of  you,  circulates  with  my  blood;  you 
are  my  breath  of  life.  How  can  I  then  overcome  you?  How 
can  I  turn  to  another  for  the  sustenance  which  you  alone  can 
give?  .  .  .  If  I  be  thirst  personified,  you  are  the  living, 
flowing  brook,   the   everlasting  fountain.     O   for   a  drink  — " 

And    here    follows    a   hectic    uprush    about    pearly 
[89] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

breasts,  and  honey-sources,  and  musk-scented  arbours, 
closing  with  "  Your  Beduin  Boy  shall  come  to-night." 

Notwithstanding  which,  the  Enchantress  abandons 
the  Syrian  Dwelling:  she  no  longer  fancies  the  vacant 
Divan  of  which  Khalid  speaks.  Fortress  or  no 
fortress,  she  gives  up  occupation  and  withdraws  from 
the  foreigner  her  favour.  Not  only  that;  but  the  fire  is 
crackling  under  the  cauldron,  and  the  typewriter  be- 
gins to  click.  Ay,  these  modern  witches  can  make 
even  a  typewriter  dance  around  the  fire  and  join  in 
the  chorus.  "  Double,  double,  toil  and  trouble,  Fire 
burn,  and  cauldron  bubble!"  and  the  performance 
was  transformed  from  the  studio  to  the  magazine 
supplement  of  one  of  the  Sunday  newspapers.  There, 
the  Dervish  is  thrown  into  the  cauldron  along  with  the 
magic  herbs.  Bubble  —  bubble.  The  fire-eating 
Dervish,  how  can  he  now  swallow  this  double- 
tongued  flame  of  hate  and  love?  The  Enchantress 
had  wrought  her  spell,  had  ministered  her  poison. 
Now,  where  can  he  find  an  antidote,  who  can  teach 
him  a  healing  formula?  Bruno  D'Ast  was  once  be- 
witched by  a  sorceress,  and  by  causing  her  to  be 
burned  he  was  immediately  cured.  Ah,  that  Khalid 
could  do  this!  Like  an  ordinary  pamphlet  he  would 
consign  the  Enchantress  to  the  flames,  and  her  scrap- 
books  and  novels  to  boot.  He  does  well,  however,  to 
return  to  his  benevolent  friend,  the  Medium.  The 
spell  can  be  counteracted  by  another,  though  less  potent. 
Ay,  even  witchcraft  has  its  homeopathic  remedies. 

And  the  Medium,  Shaklb  tells  us,  is  delighted  to 
welcome  back  her  prodigal  child.  She  opens  to  him 
[90] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

her  arms,  and  her  heart ;  she  slaj's  the  fatted  calf.  "  I 
knew  that  Allah  will  bring  jou  back  to  me,"  she  ejacu- 
lates; "my  prevision  is  seldom  wrong."  And  kissing 
her  hand,  Khalid  falters,  "  Forgiveness  is  for  the  sin- 
ner, and  the  good  are  for  forgiveness."  Whereupon, 
they  plunge  again  into  the  Unseen,  and  thence  to 
Bohemia.  The  aftermath,  however,  does  not  come  up 
to  the  expectations  of  the  good  Medium.  For  the 
rigmarole  of  the  Enchantress  about  the  Dervish  in 
New  York  had  already  done  its  evil  work.  And  — 
double  —  double  —  wherever  the  Dervish  goes. 
Especially  in  Bohemia,  where  many  of  its  daughters 
set  their  caps  for  him. 

And  here,  he  is  neither  shy  nor  slow  nor  visionary. 
Nor  shall  his  theory  of  immanent  morality  trouble 
him  for  the  while.  Reality  is  met  with  reality  on 
solid,  though  sometimes  slippery,  ground.  His  ani- 
malism, long  leashed  and  starved,  is  eager  for  prey. 
His  Phoenician  passion  is  awake.  And  fortunately, 
Khalid  finds  himself  in  Bohemia  where  the  poison  and 
the  antidote  are  frequently  offered  together.  Here 
the  spell  of  one  sorceress  can  straightway  be  offset  by 
that  of  her  sister.  And  we  have  our  Scribe's  word 
for  it,  that  the  Dervish  went  as  far  and  as  deep  with 
the  huris,  as  the  doctors  eventually  would  permit  him. 
That  is  why,  we  believe,  in  commenting  upon  his  ad- 
ventures there,  he  often  quotes  the  couplet, 

"  In  my  sublunar  paradise 
There's  plenty  of  honey  —  and  plenty  of  flies." 

The  flies  in  his  cup,  however,  can  not  be  detected 
[91] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

with  the  naked  eye.  They  are  microbes  rather  — 
microbes  which  even  the  physicians  can  not  manage 
with  satisfaction.  For  it  must  be  acknowledged  that 
Khalid's  immanent  morality  and  intellectualism  suf- 
fered an  interregnum  with  the  huris.  Reckless, 
thoughtless,  heartless,  he  plunges  headlong  again. 
It  is  said  in  Al-Hadith  that  he  who  guards 
himself  against  the  three  cardinal  evils,  namely,  of 
the  tongue  (laklaka),  of  the  stomach  {kabkaba),  and 
of  the  sex  (zabzaba),  will  have  guarded  himself 
against  all  evil.  But  Khalid  reads  not  in  the  Hadith 
of  the  Prophet.  And  that  he  became  audacious,  eda- 
cious, and  loquacious,  is  evident  from  such  wit  and 
flippancy  as  he  here  likes  to  display.  "  Some  women," 
says  he,  "  might  be  likened  to  whiskey,  others  to 
seltzer  water;  and  many  are  those  who,  like  myself, 
care  neither  for  the  soda  or  the  whiskey  straight.  A 
'  high-ball '  I  will  have." 

Nay,  he  even  takes  to  punch;  for  in  his  cup  of 
amour  there  is  a  subtle  and  multifarious  mixture. 
With  him,  he  himself  avows,  one  woman  com- 
plemented another.  What  the  svelte  brunette,  for  in- 
stance, lacked,  the  steatopygous  blonde  amply  supplied. 
Delicacy  and  intensity,  effervescence  and  depth,  these 
he  would  have  in  a  woman,  or  a  hareem,  as  in  anything 
else.  But  these  excellences,  though  found  in  a  hareem, 
will  not  fuse,  as  in  a  poem  or  a  picture.  Even  thy 
bones,  thou  scented  high-lacquered  Dervish,  are  likely 
to  melt  away  before  they  melt  into  one. 

It  is  written  in  the  K.  L.  MS.  that  women  either 
bore,  or  inspire,  or  excite.  "  The  first  and  the  last  are 
[92] 


IN    THE    EXCHANGE 

to  be  met  with  anywhere;  but  the  second?  Ah,  well 
you  have  heard  the  story  of  Diogenes.  So  take  up 
your  lamp  and  come  along.  But  remember,  when 
you  do  meet  the  woman  that  inspires,  you  will  begin 
to  yearn  for  the  woman  that  excites." 

And  here,  the  hospitality  of  the  Dervish  does  not  be- 
lie his  Arab  blood.  In  Bohemia,  the  bonfire  of  his 
heart  was  never  extinguished,  and  the  wayfarers  stop- 
ping before  his  tent,  be  they  of  those  who  bored,  or  ex- 
cited, or  inspired,  were  welcome  guests  for  at  least 
three  days  and  niglits.  And  in  this  he  follows  the  rule 
of  hospitality  among  his  people. 


[93] 


BOOK  THE  SECOND 
IN  THE  TEMPLE 


TO  NATURE 


0  Mother  eternal,  divine,  satanic,  all  encompass- 
ing, all-nourishing,  all-absorbing,  O  star-diademed, 
pearl-sandaled  Goddess,  I  am  thine  forever  and  ever: 
whether  as  a  child  of  thy  womb,  or  an  embodi- 
ment of  a  spirit-ivave  of  thy  light,  or  a  dumb  blind 
personification  of  thy  smiles  and  tears,  or  an  ignis- 
fatuus  of  the  intelligence  that  is  in  thee  or  beyond  thee, 
I  am  thine  forever  and  ever:  I  come  to  thee,  I  pros- 
trate my  face  before  thee,  I  surrender  myself  wholly  to 
thee.  O  touch  me  with  thy  wand  divine  again;  stir 
me  once  more  in  thy  mysterious  alembics;  remake  me 
to  suit  the  majestic  silence  of  thy  hills,  the  supernal 
purity  of  thy  sky,  the  mystic  austerity  of  thy  groves, 
the  modesty  of  thy  slow-swelling,  soft-rolling  streams, 
the  imperious  pride  of  thy  pines,  the  wild  beauty  and 
constancy  of  thy  mountain  rivulets.     Take  me  in  thine 


arms,  and  whisper  to  me  of  thy  secrets;  fill  my  senses 
with  thy  breath  divine;  show  me  the  bottom  of  thy  ter- 
rible spirit;  buffet  me  in  thy  storms,  infusing  in  me  of 
thy  ruggedness  and  strength,  thy  power  and  grandeur; 
lull  me  in  thine  autumn  sun-doiuns  to  teach  me  in  the 
arts  that  enrapture,  exalt,  supernaturalise.  Sing  me 
a  lullaby,  O  Mother  eternal!  Give  me  to  drink  of 
thy  love,  divine  and  diabolic;  thy  cruelty  and  thy 
kindness,  I  accept  both,  if  thou  wilt  but  whisper  to  me 
the  secret  of  both.  Anoint  me  with  the  chrism  of 
spontaneity  that  I  Tuay  be  ever  worthy  of  thee. — With- 
draiu  not  from  me  thy  hand,  lest  universal  love  and 
sympathy  die  in  my  breast. — /  implore  thee,  O  Mother 
eternal,  O  sea-throned,  heaven-canopied  Goddess,  I 
prostrate  my  face  before  thee,  I  surrender  myself 
wholly  to  thee.  And  whether  I  be  to-znorrow  the 
censer  in  the  hand  of  thy  High  Priest,  or  the  incense 
in  the  censer, —  whether  I  become  a  star-gem  in  thy 
cestus  or  a  sun  in  thy  diadem  or  even  a  firefly  in  thy 
fane,  I  am  content.  For  I  am  certain  that  it  shall 
be  for  the  best. — Khalid. 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  DOWRY  OF  DEMOCRACY 

/^LD  Arabic  books,  printed  In  Bulaq  generally 
have  a  broad  margin  wherein  a  separate  work, 
independent  of  the  text,  adds  gloom  to  the  page.  We 
have  before  us  one  of  these  tomes  In  which  the  text 
treats  of  the  ethics  of  life  and  religion,  and  the  mar- 
gins are  darkened  with  certain  adventures  which 
Shahrazad  might  have  added  to  her  famous  Nights. 
The  similarity  between  Khalld's  life  In  Its  present 
stage  and  some  such  book,  is  evident.  Nay,  he  has 
been  so  assiduous  in  writing  the  marginal  Work,  that 
ever  since  he  set  fire  to  his  peddling-box,  we  have  had 
little  In  the  Text  worth  transcribing.  Nothing,  In 
fact ;  for  many  pages  back  are  as  blank  as  the  evil  genius 
of  Bohemia  could  wish  them.  And  how  could  one 
with  that  mara  upon  him,  write  of  the  ethics  of  life 
and  religion? 

Al-HamazanI  used  to  say  that  In  Jorajan  the  man 
from  Khorasan  must  open  thrice  his  purse:  first,  to  pay 
for  the  rent;  second,  for  the  food;  and  third,  for  his 
coffin.  And  so,  In  Khalld's  case,  at  least,  Is  Bohemia. 
For  though  the  purse  be  not  his  own,  he  was  paying 
dear,  and  even  In  advance,  In  what  Is  dearer  than 
gold,  for  his  experience.  "  O,  that  the  Devil  did 
not  take  such  Interest  In  the  marginal  work  of  our 
[99] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

life!  Why  should  we  write  it  then,  and  for  whom? 
And  how  will  it  fare  with  us  when,  chapfallen  in  the 
end  and  mortified,  we  stand  before  the  great  Task- 
Master  like  delinquent  school  boys  with  a  blank  text 
in  our  hands?"  (Thus  Shakib,  who  has  caught  the 
moralising  evil  from  his  Master.)  And  that  we  must 
stand,  and  fall,  for  thus  standing,  he  is  quite  certain. 
At  least,  Khalid  is.  For  he  would  not  return  to  the 
Text  to  make  up  for  the  blank  pages  therein,  if  he  were 
not. 

"  When  he  returned  from  his  last  sojourn  in  Bo- 
hemia," writes  our  Scribe,  "  Khalid  was  pitiful  to  be- 
hold. Even  Sindbad,  had  he  seen  him,  would  have 
been  struck  with  wonder.  The  tears  rushed  to  my 
eyes  when  we  embraced ;  for  instead  of  Khalid  I  had  in 
my  arms  a  phantom.  And  I  could  not  but  repeat  the 
lines  of  Al-Mutanabbi, 

"  So  phantom-like  I  am,  and  though  so  near, 
If   I   spoke   not,  thou   wouldst   not   know   I'm  here." 

"  No  more  voyages,  I  trust,  O  thou  Sindbad."  And 
he  replied,  "  Yes,  one  more ;  but  to  our  dear  native  land 
this  time."  In  fact,  I,  too,  was  beginning  to  suffer 
from  nostalgia,  and  was  much  desirous  of  returning 
home."  But  Shakib  is  in  such  a  business  tangle  that 
he  could  not  extricate  himself  in  a  day.  So,  they 
tarry  another  year  in  New  York,  the  one  meanwhile 
unravelling  his  affairs,  settling  with  his  creditors  and 
collecting  what  few  debts  he  had,  the  other  brooding 
over  the  few  blank  pages  in  his  Text. 
[lOO] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

One  day  he  receives  a  letter  from  a  fellow  traveller, 
a  distinguished  citizen  of  Tammany  Land,  whom  he 
had  met  and  befriended  in  Bohemia,  relating  to  an 
enterprise  of  great  pith  and  moment.  It  was  election 
time,  we  learn,  and  the  high  post  of  political  can- 
vasser of  the  Syrian  District  was  offered  to  Khalid  for 
a  consideration  of  —  but  the  letter  which  Shakib  hap- 
pily preserved,  we  give  in  full. 

"Dear  Khalid: 

"  I  have  succeeded  in  getting  Mr.  O'Donohue  to  appoint 
you  a  canvasser  of  the  Syrian  District.  You  must  stir  your- 
self, therefore,  and  try  to  do  some  good  work,  among  the 
Syrian  voters,  for  Democracy's  Candidate  this  campaign. 
Here  is  a  chance  which,  with  a  little  hustling  on  your  part, 
will  materialise.  And  I  see  no  reason  why  you  should  not 
try  to  cash  your  influence  among  your  people.  This  is  no 
mean  position,  mind  you.  And  if  you  will  come  up  to  the 
Wigwam  to-morrow,  I'll  give  you  a  few  suggestions  on  the 
business  of  manipulating  votes. 

"  Yours  truly, 

"Patrick  Hoolihan." 

And  the  said  Mr.  Hoolihan,  the  letter  shows,  is 
Secretary  to  Mr.  O'Donohue,  who  is  first  henchman  to 
the  Boss.  Such  a  letter,  if  luckily  misunderstood,  will 
fire  for  a  while  the  youthful  imagination.  No;  not 
his  Shamrag  Majesty's  Tammany  Agent  to  Syria, 
this  Canvassership,  you  poor  phantom-like  zany!  A 
high  post,  indeed,  you  fond  and  pitiful  dreamer,  on 
which  you  must  hang  the  higher  aspirations  of  your 
soul,  together  with  your  theory  of  immanent  morality. 
You  would  not  know  this  at  first.  You  would  still 
kiss  the  official  notification  of  Mr.  Hoolihan,  and  hug 
it  fondly  to  your  breast.  Very  well.  At  last  —  and 
[loi] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

the  gods  will  not  damn  thee  for  musing  —  you  will 
stand  in  the  band-wagon  before  the  corner  groggery 
and  be  the  object  of  the  admiration  of  your  fellow  citi- 
zens—  perhaps  of  missiles,  too.  Very  well,  Khalid; 
but  you  must  shear  that  noddle  of  thine,  and  straight- 
way, for  the  poets  are  potted  in  Tammany  Land.  We 
say  this  for  your  sake. 

The  orator-dream  of  youth,  ye  gods,  shall  it  be 
realised  in  this  heaven  of  a  dray-cart  with  its  kero- 
sene torch  and  its  drum,  smelling  and  sounding  rather 
of  Juhannam?  Surely,  from  the  Table  of  Bohemia 
to  the  Stump  in  Tammany  Land,  is  a  far  cry.  But  be- 
lieve us,  O  Khalid,  you  will  wish  you  were  again  in 
the  gardens  of  Proserpine,  when  the  silence  and  dark- 
ness extinguish  the  torch  and  the  drum  and  the  echoes 
of  the  shouting  crowds.  The  headaches  are  certain 
to  follow  this  inebriation.  You  did  not  believe 
Shakib;  you  would  not  be  admonished;  you  would  go 
to  the  Wigwam  for  your  portfolio.  "High  post," 
"  political  canvasser,"  "  manipulation  of  votes,"  you 
will  know  the  exact  meaning  of  these  esoteric  terms, 
when,  alas,  you  meet  Mr.  Hoolihan.  For  you  must 
know  that  not  every  one  you  meet  in  Bohemia  is  not  a 
Philistine.  Indeed,  many  helots  are  there,  who  come 
from  Philistia  to  spy  out  the  Land. 

We  read  in  the  Histoire  Intitne  of  Shakib  that 
Khalid  did  become  a  Tammany  citizen,  that  is  to  say, 
a  Tammany  dray-horse ;  that  he  was  much  esteemed 
by  the  Honourable  Henchmen,  and  once  in  the  Wig- 
wam he  was  particularly  noticed  by  his  Shamrag 
Majesty  Boss  O'Graft ;  that  he  was  Tammany's  Agent 
[102] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

to  the  Editors  of  the  Syrian  newspapers  of  New  York, 
whom  he  enrolled  in  the  service  of  the  Noble  Cause 
for  a  consideration  which  no  eloquence  or  shrewdness 
could  reduce  to  a  minimum;  that  he  also  took  to  the 
stump  and  dispensed  to  his  fellow  citizens,  with  rhetor- 
ical gestures  at  least,  of  the  cut-and-dried  logic  which 
the  Committee  of  Buncombe  on  such  occasions 
furnishes  its  squad  of  talented  spouters;  and  that  — 
the  most  important  this  —  he  was  subject  In  the  end 
to  the  ignominy  of  waiting  In  the  lobby  with  tuft- 
hunters  and  political  stock-jobbers,  until  it  pleased  the 
Committee  of  Buncombe  and  the  Honourable  Treas- 
urer thereof  to  give  him  —  a  card  of  dismissal ! 

But  what  virtue  is  there  In  waiting,  our  cynical 
friend  would  ask.  Why  not  go  home  and  sleep? 
Because,  O  cynical  friend,  the  Wigwam  now  is 
Khalid's  home.  For  was  he  not.  In  creaking  boots 
and  a  slouch  hat,  ceremoniously  married  to  Democ- 
racy? Ay,  and  after  spending  their  honeymoon 
on  the  Stump  and  living  another  month  or  two 
with  his  troll  among  her  People,  he  returns  to  his 
cellar  to  brood,  not  over  the  blank  pages  In  his  Text, 
nor  over  the  disastrous  results  of  the  Campaign,  but 
on  the  weightier  matter  of  divorce.  For  although 
Politics  and  Romance,  In  the  History  of  Human  In- 
trigue, have  often  known  and  enjoyed  the  same  yoke, 
with  Khalid  they  refused  to  pull  at  the  plough.  They 
were  not  sensible  even  to  the  goad.  Either  the  yoke 
In  his  case  was  too  loose,  or  the  new  yoke-fellow  too 
thick-skinned  and  stubborn. 

Moreover,  the  promise  of  a  handsome  dowry,  made 
[103] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

by  the  Shamrag  Father-in-Law  or  his  Brokers  material- 
ised only  in  the  rotten  eggs  and  tomatoes  with  which 
the  Orator  was  cordially  received  on  his  honeymoon 
trip.  Such  a  marriage,  O  Mohammad,  and  such  a 
honeymoon,  and  such  a  dowry !  —  is  not  this  enough 
to  shake  the  very  sides  of  the  Kaaba  with  laughter? 
And  yet,  in  the  Wigwam  this  not  uncommon  affair 
was  indifferently  considered ;  for  the  good  and  honour- 
able Tammanyites  marry  off  their  Daughters  every 
day  to  foreigners  and  natives  alike,  and  with  like  ex- 
traordinary picturesque  results. 

Were  it  not  wiser,  therefore,  O  Khalid,  had  you 
consulted  your  friend  the  Dictionary  before  you  saw 
exact  meaning  of  canvass  and  manipulation,  before 
you  put  on  your  squeaking  boots  and  slouch  hat  and 
gave  your  hand  and  heart  to  Tammany's  Daughter 
and  her  Father-in-Law  O'Graft?  But  the  Diction- 
ary, too,  often  falls  short  of  human  experience;  and 
even  Mr.  O'Donohue  could  at  best  but  hint  at  the 
meaning  of  the  esoteric  terms  of  Tammany's  political 
creed.  These  you  must  define  for  yourself  as  you  go 
along;  and  change  and  revise  your  definitions  as  you 
rise  or  descend  in  the  Sacred  Order.  For  canvass  here 
might  mean  eloquence;  there  it  might  mean  shrewd- 
ness; lower  down,  intimidation  and  coercion;  and  fur- 
ther depthward,  human  sloth  and  misery.  It  is  but  a 
common  deal  in  horses.  Ay,  in  Tammany  Land  it  Is 
essentially  a  trade  honestly  conducted  on  the  known 
principle  of  supply  and  demand.  These  truths  you 
had  to  discover  for  yourself,  you  say;  for  neither  the 
Dictionary,  nor  your  friend  and  fellow  traveller  in 
[104] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

Bohemia,  Mr.  Hoolihan,  could  stretch  their  knowl- 
edge or  their  conscience  to  such  a  compass.  And 
you  are  not  sorry  to  have  made  such  a  discovery? 
Can  you  think  of  the  Dowry  and  say  that?  We  are, 
indeed,  sorry  for  you.  And  we  would  fain  Insert  in 
letter  D  of  the  Dictionary  a  new  definition:  namely, 
Dowry,  n.  (Tammany  Land  Slang).  The  odorif- 
erous missiles,  such  as  eggs  and  tomatoes,  which  are 
showered  on  an  Orator-Groom  by  the  people. 

But  see  what  big  profits  Khalid  draws  from  these 
small  shares  in  the  Reality  Stock  Company.  You  re- 
member, good  Reader,  how  he  was  kicked  away  from 
the  door  of  the  Temple  of  Atheism.  The  stogies  of 
that  inspired  Doorkeeper  were  divine,  according  to  his 
way  of  viewing  things,  for  they  were  at  that  particu- 
lar moment  God's  own  boots.  Ay,  it  was  God,  he 
often  repeats,  who  kicked  him  away  from  the  Temple 
of  his  enemies.  And  now,  he  finds  the  Dowry  of 
Democracy,  with  all  its  wonderful  revelations,  as 
profitable  in  its  results,  as  divine  in  its  purpose.  And 
in  proof  of  this,  we  give  here  a  copy  of  his  letter  to 
Boss  O'Graft,  written  in  that  downright  manner  of 
his  contemporaries,  the  English  original  of  which  we 
find  in  the  Histoire  Intime. 

"  From  Khalid  to  Boss  O'Graft. 

"Right  D/Vhonourable  Boss: 

"  I  have  just  received  a  check  from  your  Treasurer,  which 
by  no  right  whatever  is  due  me,  having  been  paid  for  my 
services  by  Him  who  knows  better  than  you  and  your  Treas- 
urer what  I  deserve.  The  voice  of  the  people,  and  their 
eggs  and  tomatoes,  too,  are,  indeed,  God's.  And  you  should 
know  this,  you  who  dare  to  remunerate  me  in  what   is   not 

[105] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

half  as  clean  as  those  missiles.  I  return  not  your  insult  of  a 
check,  however;  but  I  have  tried  to  do  your  state  some  serv- 
ice in  purchasing  the  few  boxes  of  soap  which  I  am  now 
dispatching  to  the  Wigwam.  You  need  more,  I  know,  you 
and  your  Honourable  Henchmen  or  Hashmen.  And  instead 
of  canvassing  and  orating  for  Democracy's  illustrious  Can- 
didate and  the  Noble  Cause,  masliallah!  one  ought  to  do 
a  little  canvassing  for  Honesty  and  Truth  among  Democ- 
racy's leaders,  tuft-hunters,  political  stock-jobbers,  and  such 
like.  O,  for  a  higher  stump,  my  Boss,  to  preach  to  those 
%vho  are  supporting  and  degrading  the  stumps  and  the  stump- 
orators  of  the  Republic!" 


And  is  it  come  to  this,  you  poor  phantom-like 
dreamer?  Think  you  a  Tammany  Boss  is  like  your 
atheists  and  attorneys  and  women  of  the  studio,  at 
whom  you  could  vent  your  ire  without  let  or  hin- 
drance? These  harmless  humans  have  no  constables 
at  their  command.  But  his  Shamrag  Majesty  —  O 
wretched  Khalid,  must  we  bring  one  of  his  myrmi- 
dons to  your  cellar  to  prove  to  you  that,  even  in  this 
Tammany  Land,  you  can  not  with  immunity  give  free 
and  honest  expression  to  your  thoughts?  Now,  were 
you  not  summoned  tO'  the  Shamrag's  presence  to 
answer  for  the  crime  of  lese-majeste?  And  were  you 
not,  for  your  audacity,  left  to  brood  ten  days  and 
nights  in  gaol?  And  what  tedium  we  have  in 
Shakib's  History  about  the  charge  on  which  he  was 
arrested.  It  is  unconscionable  that  Khalid  should 
misappropriate  Party  funds.  Indeed,  he  never 
even  touched  or  saw  any  of  it,  excepting,  of  course,  that 
check  which  he  returned.  But  the  Boss  was  still  in 
power.  And  what  could  Shakib  do  to  exonerate  his 
friend?  He  did  much,  and  he  tells  as  much  about  it. 
[io6] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

With  check-book  In  his  pocket,  he  makes  his  way 
through  aldermen,  placemen,  henchmen,  and  other  ques- 
tionable political  species  of  humanity,  up  to  the  Seat  of 
Justice  —  but  such  detail,  though  of  the  veracity  of  the 
writer  nothing  doubting,  we  gladly  set  aside,  since  we 
believe  with  Khalid  that  his  ten  days  In  gaol  were  akin 
to  the  Boots  and  the  Dowry  In  their  motive  and 
effect. 

But  our  Scribe,  though  never  remiss  when  Khalid 
Is  In  a  pickle,  finds  much  amiss  In  Khalid's  thoughts 
and  sentiments.  And  as  a  further  Illustration  of  the 
limpid  shallows  of  the  one  and  the  often  opaque 
depths  of  the  other,  we  give  space  to  the  following: 

"  When  Khalid  was  ordered  to  appear  before  the 
Boss,"  writes  Shakib,  "  such  curiosity  and  anxiety  as  I 
felt  at  that  time  made  me  accompany  him.  For  I  was 
anxious  about  Khalid,  and  curious  to  see  this  great 
Leader  of  men.  We  set  out,  therefore,  together,  I 
musing  on  an  Incident  In  Baalbek  when  we  went  out 
to  meet  the  Pasha  of  the  Lebanons  and  a  droll  old 
peasant,  having  seen  him  for  the  first  time,  cried  out, 
'  I  thought  the  Pasha  to  be  a  Pasha,  but  he's  but  a 
man.'  And  I  am  sorry,  after  having  seen  the  Boss, 
I  can  not  say  as  much  for  him." 

Here  follows  a  little  philosophising,  unbecoming  of 
our  Scribe,  on  men  and  names  and  how  they  act  and 
react  upon  each  other.  Also,  a  page  about  his  mis- 
givings and  the  effort  he  made  to  persuade  Khalid  not 
to  appear  before  the  Boss.  But  skipping  over  these, 
"  we  reach  the  Tammany  Wigwam  and  are  conducted 
by  a  thick-set,  heavy-jowled,  heavy-booted  citizen 
[107] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

through  the  long  corridor  into  a  little  square  room 
occupied  by  a  little  square-faced  clerk.  Here  we  wait 
a  half  hour  and  more,  during  which  the  young 
gentleman,  with  his  bell  before  him  and  his  orders  to 
minor  clerks  who  come  and  go,  poses  as  somebody  of 
some  importance.  We  are  then  asked  to  follow  him 
from  one  room  into  another,  until  we  reach  the  one 
adjoining  the  private  office  of  the  Boss.  A  knock  or 
two  are  executed  on  the  door  of  Greatness  with  a 
nauseous  sense  of  awe,  and  '  Come  in,'  Greatness  with- 
in huskily  replies.  The  square-faced  clerk  enters, 
shuts  the  door  after  him,  returns  in  a  trice,  and  con- 
ducts us  into  the  awful  Presence.  Ye  gods  of  Baalbek, 
the  like  of  this  I  never  saw  before.  Here  is  a 
room  sumptuously  furnished  with  sofas  and  fauteuils, 
and  rugs  from  Ispahan.  On  the  walls  are  pictures 
of  Washington,  Jef¥erson,  and  the  great  Boss  Tweed ; 
and  right  under  the  last  named,  behind  that  preciously 
carved  mahogany  desk,  in  that  soft  rolling  mahogany 
chair,  is  the  squat  figure  of  the  big  Boss.  On  the 
desk  before  him,  besides  a  plethora  of  documents,  lay 
many  things  pell-mell,  among  which  I  noticed  a  box  of 
cigars,  the  Criminal  Code,  and,  most  prominent  of  all, 
the  Boss'  feet,  raised  there  either  to  bid  us  welcome, 
or  to  remind  us  of  his  power.  And  the  rich  Ispahan 
rug,  the  cuspidor  being  small  and  overfull,  receives 
the  richly  coloured  matter  which  he  spurts  forth  every 
time  he  takes  the  cigar  out  of  his  mouth.  O,  the  vul- 
garity, the  bestiality  of  it!  Think  of  those  poor  pa- 
tient Persian  weavers  who  weave  the  tissues  of  their 
hearts  into  such  beautiful  work,  and  of  this  proud  and 
[io8] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

paltry  Boss,  whose  office  should  have  been  furnished 
with  straw.  Yes,  with  straw ;  and  the  souls  of  those 
poor  artist-weavers  will  sleep  in  peace.  O,  the  igno- 
miny of  having  such  precious  pieces  of  workmanship 
under  the  feet  and  spittle  of  such  vulgar  specimens  of 
humanity.  But  if  the  Boss  had  purchased  these  rugs 
himself,  with  money  earned  by  his  own  brow-sweat, 
I  am  sure  he  would  appreciate  them  better.  He  would 
then  know,  if  not  their  intrinsic  worth,  at  least  their 
market  value.  Yes,  and  they  were  presented  to  him 
by  some  one  needing,  I  suppose,  police  connivance 
and  protection.  The  first  half  of  this  statement  I 
had  from  the  Boss  himself ;  the  second,  I  base  on 
Khalid's  knowingness  and  suspicion.  Be  this,  however, 
as  it  may. 

"  When  we  entered  this  sumptuously  furnished  of- 
fice, the  squat  figure  in  the  chair  under  the  picture  of 
Boss  Tweed,  remained  as  immobile  as  a  fixture  and 
did  not  as  much  as  reply  to  our  salaam.  But  he 
pointed  disdainfully  to  seats  in  the  corner  of  the  room, 
saying,  *  Sit  down  there,'  in  a  manner  quite  in  keeping 
with  his  stogies  raised  on  the  desk  directly  in  our  face. 
Such  freedom,  nay,  such  bestiality,  I  could  never  toler- 
ate. Indeed,  I  prefer  the  suavity  and  palaver  of 
Turkish  officials,  no  matter  how  crafty  and  corrupt,  to 
the  puffing,  spitting  manners  of  these  come-up-from-the- 
shamble  men.  But  Khalid  could  sit  there  as  immo- 
bile as  the  Boss  himself,  and  he  did  so,  billah!  For 
he  was  thinking  all  the  while,  as  he  told  me  when  we 
came  out,  not  of  such  matters  as  grate  on  the  suscepti- 
bilities of  a  poet,  but  on  the  one  sole  idea  of  how  such 
[109] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

a  bad  ti'tman  could  lead  by  the  nose  so  many  good 
people." 

Shakib  then  proceeds  to  give  us  a  verbatim  report  of 
the  interview.  It  begins  with  the  Boss'  question, 
"What  do  you  mean  by  writing  such  a  letter?"  and 
ends  with  this  other,  "  What  do  you  mean  by  immanent 
morality?  "  The  reader,  given  the  head  and  tail  of  the 
matter,  can  supply  the  missing  parts.  Or,  given  its 
two  bases,  he  can  construct  this  triangle  of  Politics, 
Ethics,  and  the  Constable,  with  Khalid's  letter, 
offended  Majesty,  and  a  prison  cell,  as  its  three  turn- 
ing points.  We  extract  from  the  report,  however,  the 
concluding  advice  of  the  Boss.  For  when  he  asked 
Khalid  again  what  he  meant  by  immanent  morality,  he 
continued  in  a  crescendo  of  indignation:  "You  mean 
the  morality  of  hayseeds,  and  priests,  and  philosophical 
fools?  That  sort  of  morality  will  not  as  much  as  se- 
cure a  vote  during  the  campaign,  nor  even  help  to 
keep  the  lowest  clerk  in  office.  That  sort  of  morality 
is  good  for  your  mountain  peasants  or  other  barbar- 
ous tribes.  But  the  free  and  progressive  people  of  the 
United  States  must  have  something  better,  nobler, 
more  practical.  You'd  do  well,  therefore,  to  get  you  a 
pair  of  rings,  hang  them  in  your  ears,  and  go  preach 
your  immanent  morality  to  the  South  African  Pappoos. 
But  before  you  go,  you  shall  taste  of  the  rigour  of  our 
law,  you  insolent,  brazen-faced,  unmannerly  scoun- 
drel!" 

And  we  are  assured  that  the  Boss  did  not  remain  im- 
mobile as  he  spurted  forth  this  mixture  of  wrath  and 
wisdom,  nor  did  the  stogies;  for  moved  by  his  own 
[no] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

words,  he  rose  promptly  to  his  feet,  "  And  what  of 
it,"  exclaims  our  Scribe.  "  Surely,  I  had  rather  see 
those  boots  perform  any  ofHce,  high  or  low,  as  to  be- 
hold their  soles  raised  like  mirrors  to  my  face."  But 
how  high  an  office  they  performed  when  the  Boss  came 
forward,  we  are  not  told.  All  that  our  Scribe  gives 
out  about  the  matter  amounts  to  this:  namely,  that  he 
walked  out  of  the  room,  and  as  he  looked  back  to  see 
If  Khalid  was  following,  he  saw  him  brushing  with  his 
hands  —  his  hips!  And  on  that  very  day  Khalid  was 
summoned  to  appear  before  the  Court  and  give  answer 
to  the  charge  of  misappropriation  of  public  funds. 
The  orator-dream  of  youth  —  what  a  realisation! 
He  comes  to  Court,  and  after  the  legal  formalities  are 
performed,  he  is  delivered  unto  an  officer  who  escorts 
him  across  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  to  gaol.  There,  for 
ten  days  and  nights, —  and  it  might  have  been  ten 
months  were  It  not  for  his  devoted  and  steadfast 
friend, —  we  leave  Khalid  to  brood  on  Democracy  and 
the  Dowry  of  Democracy.  A  few  extracts  from  the 
Chapter  in  the  K.  L.  MS.  entitled  "  In  Prison,"  are, 
therefore,  appropriate. 

"  So  long  as  one  has  faith,"  he  -writes,  "  in  the  general 
moral  summation  of  the  experience  of  mankind,  as  the  phi- 
losophy of  reason  assures  us,  one  should  not  despair.  But 
the  material  fact  of  the  Present,  the  dark  moment  of  no- 
morality,  consider  that,  my  suffering  Brothers.  And  reflect 
further  that  in  this  great  City  of  New  York  the  majority  of 
citizens  consider  it  a  blessing  to  have  a  roja'tl  (titman)  for 
their  boss  and  leader.  .  .  .  How  often  have  I  mused 
that  if  Ponce  de  Leon  sought  the  Fountain  of  Youth  in  the 
New  World,  I,  Khalid,  sought  the  Fountain  of  Truth,  and 
both  of  us  have  been  equally  successful ! 
[Ill] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

"But  the  Americans  are  neither  Pagans  —  which  is  con- 
soling—  nor  fetish-worshipping  heathens:  they  are  all  true 
and  honest  votaries  of  Mammon,  their  great  God,  their  one 
and  only  God.  And  is  it  not  natural  that  the  Demiurgic 
Dollar  should  be  the  national  Deity  of  America?  Have  not 
deities  been  always  conceived  after  man's  needs  and  aspira- 
tions? Thus  in  Egypt,  in  a  locality  where  the  manufacture 
of  pottery  was  the  chief  industry,  God  was  represented  as  a 
potter;  in  agricultural  districts,  as  a  god  of  harvest;  among 
warring  tribes  as  an  avenger,  a  Jehovah.  And  the  more 
needs,  the  more  deities;  the  higher  the  aspirations,  the  better 
the  gods.  Hence  the  ugly  fetish  of  a  savage  tribe,  and  the 
beautiful  mythology  of  a  Greek  Civilisation.  Change  the 
needs  and  aspirations  of  the  Americans,  therefore,  and  you 
will  have  changed  their  worship,  their  national  Deity,  and 
even  their  Government.  And  believe  me,  this  change  is 
coming;  people  get  tired  of  their  gods  as  of  everything  else. 
Ay,  the  time  will  come,  when  man  in  this  America  shall  not 
suffer  for  not  being  a  seeker  and  lover  and  defender  of  the 
Dollar.     ... 

"Obedience,  like  faith,  is  a  divine  gift;  but  only  when  it 
comes  from  the  heart:  only  when  prompted  by  love  and  sin- 
cerity is  it  divine.  If  you  can  not,  however,  reverence  what 
5^ou  obey,  then,  I  say,  withhold  your  obedience.  And  if  you 
prefer  to  barter  your  identity  or  ego  for  a  counterfeit  coia 
of  ideology,  that  right  is  yours.  For  under  a  liberal  Con- 
stitution and  in  a  free  Government,  you  are  also  at  liberty 
to  sell  your  soul,  to  open  a  bank  account  for  your  conscience. 
But  don't  blame  God,  or  Destiny,  or  Society,  when  you  find 
yourself,  after  doing  this,  a  brother  to  the  ox.  Herein,  we 
Orientals  differ  from  Europeans  and  Americans;  we  are 
never  bribed  into  obedience.  We  obey  either  from  rever- 
ence and  love,  or  from  fear.  We  are  either  power-worship- 
pers or  cowards,  but  never,  never  traders.  It  might  be  said 
that  the  masses  in  the  East  are  blind  slaves,  while  in  Europe 
and  America  they  are  become  blind  rebels.  And  which  is 
the  better  part  of  valour,  when  one  is  blind — submission  or 
revolt  ?     .     .     . 

"No;  popular  suffrage  helps  not  the  suffering  individual; 
nor  does  it  conduce  to  a  better  and  higher  morality.  Why, 
my  Masters,  it  can  not  as  much  as  purge  its  own  channels. 
For  what  is  the  ballot  box,  I  ask  again,  but  a  modern  ve- 
hicle of  corruption  and  debasement?  The  ballot  box,  be- 
[112] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

lieve  me,  can  not  add  a  cubit  to  your  frame,  nor  can  it  shed 
a  modicum  of  light  on  the  deeper  problems  of  life.  Of 
course,  it  is  the  exponent  of  the  will  of  the  majority,  that  is 
to  say,  the  will  of  the  Party  that  has  more  money  at  its  dis- 
posal. _  The  majority,  and  Iblis,  and  Juhannam  —  ah,  come 
out  with  me  to  the  new  gods !     .     .     ." 

But  we  must  make  allowance  for  these  girds  and 
gibes  at  Democracy,  of  which  we  have  given  a  speci- 
men. Khalid's  irony  bites  so  deep  at  times  as  to  get 
at  the  very  bone  of  truth.  And  here  is  the  marrow 
of  it.  We  translate  the  following  prophecy  with 
which  he  closes  his  Chapter  "  In  Prison,"  and  with  it, 
too,  we  close  ours. 

_"  But  my  faith  in  man,"  he  swears,  "  is  as  strong  as  my 
faith  in  God.  And  as  strong,  too,  perhaps,  is  my  faith  in 
the  future  world-ruling  destiny  of  America.  To  these  United 
States  shall  the  Nations  of  the  World  turn  one  day  for  the 
best  model  of  good  Government;  in  these  United  States  the 
well-springs  of  the  higher  aspirations  of  the  soul  shall  quench 
the  thirst  of  every  race-traveller  on  the  highway  of  emanci- 
pation ;  and  from  these  United  States  the  sun  and  moon  of 
a  great  Faith  and  a  great  Art  shall  rise  upon  mankind.  I 
believe  this,  billah !  and  I  am  willing  to  go  on  the  witness 
stand  to  swear  to  it.  Ay,  in  this  New  World,  the  higher 
Superman  shall  rise.  And  he  shall  not  be  of  the  tribe  of 
Overmen  of  the  present  age,  of  the  beautiful  blond  beast  of 
Zarathustra,  who  would  riddle  mankind  as  they  would  rid- 
dle wheat  or  flour;  nor  of  those  political  moralists  who  would 
reform  the  world  as  they  would  a  parish. 

"  From  his  transcendental  height,  the  Superman  of  Amer- 
ica shall  ray  forth  in  every  direction  the  divine  light,  which 
shall  mellow  and  purify  the  spirit  of  Nations  and  strengthen 
and  sweeten  the  spirit  of  men.  In  this  New  World,  I  tell 
you,  he  shall  be  born,  but  he  shall  not  be  an  American  in 
the  Democratic  sense.  He  shall  be  nor  of  the  Old  World 
nor  of  the  New;  he  shall  be,  my  Brothers,  of  both.  In  him 
shall  be  reincarnated  the  Asiatic  spirit  of  origination,  of 
Poesy  and  Prophecy,  and  the  European  spirit  of  Art,  and  the 

[113] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 


American  spirit  of  Invention.  Ay,  the  Nation  that  leads 
the  world  to-day  in  material  progress  shall  lead  it,  too,  in 
the  future,  in  the  higher  things  of  the  mind  and  soul.  And 
when  you  reach  that  height,  O  beloved  America,  you  will 
be  far  from  the  majority-rule,  and  Iblis,  and  Juhannam. 
And  you  will  then  conquer  those  *  enormous  mud  Mega- 
theriums'  of  which  Carlyle  makes  loud  mention." 


[114] 


CHAPTER  II 

SUBTRANSCENDENTAL 

rjEFICIENCIES  in  individuals,  as  in  States,  have 
their  value  and  import.  Indeed,  that  subh'me 
impulse  of  perfectibility,  always  vivacious,  always 
working  under  various  forms  and  with  one  underlying 
purpose,  w^ould  be  futile  without  them,  and  fatuous. 
And  what  were  life  without  this  incessant  striving  of 
the  spirit?  What  were  life  without  its  angles  of  diffi- 
culty and  defeat,  and  its  apices  of  triumph  and 
power?  A  banality  this,  you  will  say.  But  need 
we  not  be  reminded  of  these  wholesome  truths,  when 
the  striving  after  originality  nowadays  is  productive  of 
so  much  quackerj'?  The  impulse  of  perfectibility,  we 
repeat,  whether  at  work  in  a  Studio,  or  in  a  Factory, 
or  in  a  Prison  Cell,  is  the  most  noble  of  all  human  im- 
pulses, the  most  divine. 

Of  that  Chapter,  In  Prison,  we  have  given 
what  might  be  called  the  exogenous  bark  of  the  Soul, 
or  that  which  environment  creates.  And  now  we 
shall  endeavour  to  show  the  reader  somewhat  of  the 
ludigenous  process,  by  which  the  Soul,  thrumming  its 
own  strings  or  eating  its  own  guts,  develops  and  in- 
creases its  numbers.  For  Khalid  in  these  gaol-days  is 
much  like  Hamlet's  player,  or  even  like  Hamlet  him- 
self—  always  soliloquising,  tearing  a  passion  to  rags. 
[115] 


THE    BOOK    OE    KHALID 

And  what  mean  these  outbursts  and  objurgations  of 
his,  you  will  ask;  these  suggestions,  fugitive,  rhapsod- 
ical, mystical ;  this  furibund  allegro  about  Money, 
Mediums,  and  Bohemia;  these  sobs  and  tears  and 
asseverations,  in  w^hich  our  Lady  of  the  Studio  and 
Shakib  are  both  expunged  w^ith  great  billahs ; —  the 
force  and  significance  of  these  subliminal  uprushes, 
dear  Reader,  we  confess  we  are,  like  yourself,  unable 
to  understand,  without  the  aid  of  our  Interpreter. 
We  shall,  therefore,  let  him  speak. 

"  When  in  prison,"  writes  Shakib,  "  Khalid  was 
subject  to  spasms  and  strange  hallucinations.  One 
day,  when  I  was  sweating  in  the  effort  to  get  him  out 
of  gaol,  he  sends  me  word  to  come  and  see  him.  I 
go;  and  after  waiting  a  while  at  the  Iron  gate,  I  be- 
hold Khalid  rushing  down  the  isle  like  an  angry  lion. 
'  What  do  you  want,'  he  growled,  *  why  are  you 
here? '  And  I,  amazed,  '  Did  you  not  send  for  me?  ' 
And  he  snapped  up,  '  I  did ;  but  you  should  not  have 
come.  You  should  withhold  from  me  your  favours.' 
Life  of  Allah,  I  was  stunned.  I  feared  lest  his  mind, 
too,  had  gone  In  the  direction  of  his  health,  which 
was  already  sorrily  undermined.  I  looked  at  him 
with  dim,  tearful  eyes,  and  assured  him  that  soon  he 
shall  be  free.  *  And  what  is  the  use  of  freedom,'  he 
exclaimed,  '  when  it  drags  us  to  lower  and  darker 
depths?  Don't  think  I  am  miserable  in  prison.  No; 
I  am  not  —  I  am  happy.  I  have  had  strange  visions, 
marvellous.  O  my  Brother,  if  you  could  behold  the 
sloughs,  deeper  and  darker  than  any  prison-cell,  into 
which  you  have  thrown  me.  Yes,  you  —  and  another. 
[ii6] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

O,  I  hate  you  both.  I  hate  my  best  lovers.  I  hate 
You  —  no  —  no,  no,  no.'  And  he  falls  on  me,  em- 
braces me,  and  bathes  my  cheeks  with  his  tears.  After 
which  he  falters  out  beseechingly,  '  Promise,  promise 
that  you  will  not  give  me  any  more  money,  and 
though  starving  and  in  rags  you  find  me  crouching  at 
your  door,  promise.'  And  of  a  truth,  I  acquiesced  In 
all  he  said,  seeing  how  shaken  in  body  and  mind  he 
was.  But  not  until  I  had  made  a  promise  under  oath 
would  he  be  tranquillised.  And  so,  after  our  farewell 
embrace,  he  asked  me  to  come  again  the  following  day 
and  bring  him  some  books  to  read.  This  I  did,  fetch- 
ing with  me  Rousseau's  Emile  and  Carlyle's 
Hero-Worship,  the  only  two  books  he  had  in 
the  cellar.  And  when  he  saw  them,  he  exclaimed 
with  joy,  '  The  very  books  I  want !  I  read  them  twice 
already,  and  I  shall  read  them  again.  O,  let  me 
kiss  you  for  the  thought.'  And  in  an  ecstasy  he 
overwhelms  me  again  with  suffusing  sobs  and  em- 
braces. 

"  What  a  difference,  I  thought,  between  Khalid  of 
yesterday  and  Khalid  of  to-day.  What  a  transforma- 
tion !  Even  I  who  know  the  turn  and  temper  of  his 
nature  had  much  this  time  to  fear.  Surely,  an  alien- 
ist would  have  made  a  case  of  him.  But  I  began  to 
get  an  inkling  into  his  cue  of  passion,  when  he  told 
me  that  he  was  going  to  start  a  little  business  again, 
If  I  lend  him  the  necessary  capital.  But  I  reminded 
him  that  we  shall  soon  be  returning  home.  '  No,  not 
I,'  he  swore ;  '  not  until  I  can  pay  my  own  passage,  at 
least.  I  told  you  vesterday  I'll  accept  no  more  money 
[117] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

from  you,  except,  of  course,  the  sum  I  need  to  start 
the  little  business  I  am  contemplating,'  '  And  sup- 
pose you  lose  this  money,'  I  asked.  — '  Why,  then  you 
lose  me.  But  no,  you  shall  not.  For  I  know,  I  be- 
lieve, I  am  sure,  I  swear  that  my  scheme  this  time  will 
not  be  a  failure  in  any  sense  of  the  word.  I  have 
heavenly  testimony  on  that.' — '  And  what  was  the 
matter  with  you  yesterday  ?  Why  were  you  so  queer  ?  ' 
*  O,  I  had  nightmares  and  visions  the  night  before,  and 
you  came  too  early  in  the  morning.  See  this.'  And 
he  holds  down  his  head  to  show  me  the  back  of  his 
neck.  *  Is  there  no  swelling  here?  I  feel  it.  Oh,  it 
pains  me  yet.  But  I  shall  tell  you  about  it  and  about 
the  vision  when  I  am  out.' — And  at  this,  the  gaoler 
comes  to  inform  us  that  Khalid's  minutes  are  spent 
and  he  must  return  to  his  cell." 

All  of  which  from  our  Interpreter  is  as  clear  as  God 
Save  the  King.  And  from  which  we  hope  our  Reader 
will  infer  that  those  outbursts  and  tears  and  rhapso- 
dies of  Khalid  did  mean  somewhat.  They  did  mean, 
even  when  we  first  approached  his  cell,  that  something 
was  going  on  in  him  —  a  revolution,  a  coup  d'etat,  so 
to  speak,  of  the  spirit.  For  a  Prince  in  Rags,  but  not 
in  Debts  and  Dishonour,  will  throttle  the  Harpy  which 
has  hitherto  ruled  and  degraded  his  soul. 

But  the  dwelling,  too,  of  that  soul  is  sorely  under- 
mined. And  so,  his  leal  and  loving  friend  Shaklb 
takes  him  later  to  the  best  physician  in  the  City,  who 
after  the  tapping  and  auscultation,  shakes  his 
head,  writes  his  prescriptions,  and  advises  Khalid  to 
keep  in  the  open  air  as  much  as  possible,  or  better  still, 
[ii8] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

to  return  to  his  native  country.  The  last  portion  of 
the  advice,  however,  Khalid  can  not  follow  at  present. 
For  he  will  either  return  home  on  his  own  account 
or  die  in  New  York.  "  If  I  can  not  in  time  save 
enough  money  for  the  Steamship  Company,"  he  said 
to  Shakib,  "  I  can  at  least  leave  enough  to  settle  the 
undertaker's  bill.  And  in  either  case,  I  shall  have 
paid  my  own  passage  out  of  this  New  World.  And  I 
shall  stand  before  my  Maker  In  a  shroud,  at  least, 
which  I  can  call  my  own." 

To  which  Shakib  replies  by  going  to  the  druggist 
with  the  prescriptions.  And  when  he  returns  to  the 
cellar  with  a  package  of  four  or  five  medicine  bottles 
for  rubbing  and  smelling  and  drinking,  he  finds  Khalid 
sitting  near  the  stove  —  we  are  now  in  the  last  month 
of  Winter  —  warming  his  hands  on  the  flames  of  the 
two  last  books  he  read.  Emile  and  Hero-lVorship  go 
the  way  of  all  the  rest.  And  there  he  sits,  meditating 
over  Carlyle's  crepitating  fire  and  Rousseau's  writhing, 
sibilating  flame.  And  it  may  be  he  thought  of  neither. 
Perhaps  he  was  brooding  over  the  resolution  he  had 
made,  and  the  ominous  shaking  of  the  doctor's  head. 
Ah,  but  his  tutelar  deities  are  better  physicians,  he 
thought.  And  having  made  his  choice,  he  will  pitch 
the  medicine  bottles  into  the  street,  and  only  follow 
the  doctor's  advice  by  keeping  in  the  open  air. 

Behold  him,  therefore,  with  a  note  in  hand,  applying 
to  Shakib,  in  a  formal  and  business-like  manner,  for 
a  loan ;  and  see  that  noble  benefactor  and  friend,  after 
gladly  giving  the  money,  throw  the  note  into  the  fire. 
And  now,  Khalid  is  neither  dervish  nor  philosopher, 
[119] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

but  a  man  of  business  with  a  capital  of  twenty-five 
dollars  in  his  pocket.  And  with  one-fifth  of  this  capi- 
tal he  buys  a  second-hand  push-cart  from  his  Greek 
neighbour,  wends  his  way  with  it  to  the  market-place, 
makes  a  purchase  there  of  a  few  boxes  of  oranges,  sorts 
them  in  his  cart  into  three  classes, — "  there  is  no  equal- 
ity in  nature,"  he  says,  while  doing  this, —  sticks  a  price 
card  at  the  head  of  each  class,  and  starts,  in  the  name 
of  Allah,  his  business.  That  is  how  he  will  keep  in  the 
open  air  twelve  hours  a  day. 

But  in  the  district  where  he  is  known  he  does  not 
long  remain.  The  sympathy  of  his  compatriots  is  to 
him  worse  than  the  doctor's  medicines,  and  those  who 
had  often  heard  him  speechifying  exchanged  significant 
looks  when  he  passed.  Moreover,  the  police  would 
not  let  him  set  up  his  stand  anywhere.  "  There  comes 
the  push-cart  orator,"  they  would  say  to  each  other; 
and  before  our  poor  Syrian  stops  to  breathe,  one  of 
them  grumpishly  cries  out,  "Move  on  there!  Move 
on!"  Once  Khalid  ventures  to  ask,  "But  why  are 
others  allowed  to  set  up  their  stands  here?"  And 
the  "  copper "  (we  beg  the  Critic's  pardon  again) 
coming  forward  twirling  his  club,  lays  his  hand  on 
Khalid's  shoulder  and  calmly  this:  "  Don't  you  think 
I  know  you?  Move  on,  I  saj^"  O  Khalid,  have  you 
forgotten  that  these  "  coppers "  are  the  minions  of 
Tammany?  Why  tarry,  therefore,  and  ask  questions? 
Yes,  make  a  big  move  at  once  —  out  of  the  district 
entirely. 

Now,  to  the  East  Side,  into  the  Jewish  Quarter, 
Khalid  directs  his  cart.  And  there,  he  falls  in  with 
[120] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

Jewish  fellow  push-cart  peddlers  and  puts  up  with 
them  in  a  cellar  similar  to  his  in  the  Syrian  Quarter. 
But  only  for  a  month  could  he  suffer  what  the  Jew 
has  suffered  for  centuries.  Why?  There  is  this  dif- 
ference between  the  cellar  of  the  Semite  Syrian  and 
that  of  the  Semite  Jew:  in  the  first  we  eat  mojadderah. 
In  the  second,  kosher  but  stinking  flesh;  in  the 
first  we  read  poetry  and  play  the  lute,  In  the 
second  we  fight  about  the  rent  and  the  division  of  the 
profits  of  the  day ;  in  the  first  we  sleep  In  linen  *'  as 
white  as  the  wings  of  the  dove,"  in  the  second  on  pieces 
of  smelly  blankets;  the  first  Is  redolent  of  ottar  of 
roses,  Shakib's  favourite  perfume,  the  second  is  espe- 
cially made  Insufferable  by  that  stench  which  is 
peculiar  to  every  Hebrew  hive.  For  these  and  other 
reasons,  Khalid  separates  himself  from  his  Semite  fel- 
low peddlers,  and  makes  this  time  a  bigger  move  than 
the  first. 

Ay,  even  to  the  Bronx,  where  often  in  former  days, 
shouldering  the  peddllng-box,  he  tramped,  will  he  now 
push  his  orange-cart  and  his  hopes.  There,  between 
City  and  Country,  nearer  to  Nature,  and  not  far  from 
the  traffic  of  life,  he  fares  better  both  in  health  and 
purse.  It  Is  much  to  his  liking,  this  upper  end  of  the 
City,  Here  the  atmosphere  is  more  peaceful  and 
soothing,  and  the  police  are  more  agreeable.  No,  they 
do  not  nickname  and  bully  him  In  the  Bronx,  And 
never  was  he  ordered  to  move  on,  even  though  he  set 
up  his  stand  for  months  at  the  same  corner,  "Ah, 
how  much  kinder  and  more  humane  people  become," 
he  says,  "  even  when  thev  are  not  altogether  out  of  the 

[I2I] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

City,   but  only  on   the  outskirts  of  the   country  ex- 
panse." 

Khalid  passes  the  Spring  and  Summer  in  the  Bronx 
and  keeps  in  the  open  air,  not  only  in  the  day,  but 
also  in  the  night.  How  he  does  this,  is  told  in  a  letter 
which  he  writes  to  Shakib.  But  does  he  sleep  at  all, 
you  ask,  and  how,  and  where?  Reader,  we  thank 
you  for  your  anxiety  about  Khalid's  health.  And  we 
would  fain  show  you  the  Magic  Carpet  which  he  car- 
ries in  the  lock-box  of  his  push-cart.  But  see  for  your- 
self, here  be  neither  Magic  Carpet,  nor  Magic  Ring. 
Only  his  papers,  a  few  towels,  a  blanket,  some  under- 
wear, and  his  coffee  utensils,  are  here.  For  Khalid 
could  forego  his  mojadderah,  but  never  his  coffee,  the 
Arab  that  he  is.  But  an  Arab  on  the  way  fare,  if  he 
finds  himself  at  night  far  from  the  camp,  will  dig  him 
a  ditch  in  the  sands  and  lie  there  to  sleep  under  the 
living  stars.  Khalid  could  not  do  thus,  neither  in  the 
City  nor  out  of  it.  And  yet,  he  did  not  lodge  within 
doors.  He  hired  a  place  only  for  his  push-cart;  and 
this,  a  small  padlock-booth  where  he  deposits  his  stock 
in  trade.  But  how  he  lived  in  the  Bronx  is  described 
in  the  following  letter: 

•'  My  loving  Brother  Shakib, 

"  I  have  been  two  months  here,  in  a  neighbourhood  familiar 
to  you.  Not  far  from  the  place  where  I  sleep  is  the  sycamore 
tree  under  which  I  burned  my  peddling-box.  And  perhaps  I 
shall  yet  burn  there  my  push-cart  too.  But  for  the  present, 
all's  well.  My  business  is  good  and  my  health  is  improving. 
The  money-order  I  am  enclosing  with  this,  will  cancel  the 
note,  but  not  the  many  debts,  I  owe  you.  And  I  hope  to  be 
able  to  join  you  again  soon,  to  make  the  voyage  to  our  native 
land  together.  Meanwhile  I  am  working,  and  laying  up  a 
[122] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

little  something.  I  make  from  two  to  three  dollars  a  day,  of 
which  I  never  spend  more  than  one.  And  this  on  one  meal 
only;  for  my  lodging  and  my  lunch  and  breakfast  cost  next 
to  nothing.  Yes,  I  can  be  a  push-cart  peddler  in  the  day;  I 
can  sleep  out  of  doors  at  night;  I  can  do  with  coffee  and 
oranges  for  lunch  and  breakfast;  but  in  the  evening  I  will 
assert  my  dignity  and  do  justice  to  my  taste:  I  will  dine  at 
the  Hermitage  and  permit  you  to  call  me  a  fool.  And  why 
not,  since  my  purse,  like  my  stomach,  is  now  my  own?  Why 
not  go  to  the  Hermitage  since  my  push-cart  income  permits 
of  it?  But  the  first  night  I  went  there  my  shabbiness  at- 
tracted the  discomforting  attention  of  the  fashionable  diners, 
and  made  even  the  waiters  offensive.  Indeed,  one  of  them 
came  to  ask  if  I  were  looking  for  somebody.  '  No,'  I  replied 
with  suppressed  indignation;  'I'm  looking  for  a  place  where 
I  can  sit  down  and  eat,  without  being  eaten  by  the  eyes  of 
the  vulgar  curious.'  And  I  pass  into  an  arbor,  which  from 
that  night  becomes  virtually  my  own,  followed  by  a  waiter 
who  from  that  night,  too,  became  my  friend.  For  every 
evening  I  go  there,  I  find  my  table  unoccupied  and  my  waiter 
ready  to  receive  and  serve  me.  But  don't  think  he  does  this 
for  the  sake  of  my  black  eyes  or  my  philosophy.  That  dis- 
dainful glance  of  his  on  the  first  evening  I  could  never  for- 
get, billah.  And  I  found  that  it  could  be  baited  and  mel- 
lowed only  by  a  liberal  tip.  And  this  I  make  in  advance 
every  week  for  both  my  comfort  and  his.  Yes,  I  am  a  fool, 
I  grant  you,  but  I'm  not  out  of  my  element  there. 

"  After  dinner  I  take  a  stroll  in  the  Flower  Gardens,  and 
crossing  the  rickety  wooden  bridge  over  the  river,  I  enter  the 
hemlock  grove.  Here,  in  a  sequestered  spot  near  the  river 
bank,  I  lay  me  on  the  grass  and  sleep  for  the  night.  I  al- 
ways bring  my  towels  with  me;  for  in  the  morning  I  take 
a  dip,  and  at  night  I  use  them  for  a  pillow.  When  the 
weather  requires  it,  I  bring  my  blankets  too.  And  hanging 
one  of  them  over  me,  tied  to  the  trees  by  the  cords  sown  to 
its   corners,    I   wrap   myself   in   the   other,   and    praise   Allah. 

"  These  and  the  towels,  after  taking  my  bath,  I  leave  at  the 
Hermitage;  my  waiter  minds  them  for  me.  And  so,  I  sus- 
pect I  am  happy — if,  curse  it!  I  could  but  breathe  better. 
O,  come  up  to  see  me.  I'll  give  you  a  royal  dinner  at  the 
Hermitage,  and  a  royal  bed  in  the  hemlock  grove  on  the 
river-bank.  Do  come  up,  the  peace  of  Allah  upon  thee.  Read 
my  salaam  to  Im-Hanna." 

[123] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

And  during  his  five  months  in  the  Bronx  he  did  not 
sleep  five  nights  within  doors,  we  are  told,  nor  did  he 
once  dine  out  of  the  Hermitage.  Even  his  hair,  a  fan- 
tastic fatuity  behind  a  push-cart,  he  did  not  take  the 
trouble  to  cut  or  trim.  It  must  have  helped  his  busi- 
ness. But  this  constancy,  never  before  sustained  to 
such  a  degree,  must  soon  cease,  having  laid  up,  thanks 
to  his  push-cart  and  the  people  of  the  Bronx,  enough 
to  carry  him,  not  only  to  Baalbek,  but  to  Aymakanen^ 
kan. 


[124] 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  FALSE  DAWN 

TTTHAT  the  Arabs  always  said  of  Andalusia,  Khalid 
and  Shakib  said  once  of  America:  a  most  beau- 
tiful country  with  one  single  vice  —  it  makes  foreign- 
ers forget  their  native  land.  But  now  they  are  both 
suffering  from  nostalgia,  and  America,  therefore,  is 
without  a  single  vice.  It  is  perfect,  heavenly,  ideal. 
In  it  one  sees  only  the  vices  of  other  races,  and  the 
ugliness  of  other  nations.  America  herself  is  as  lovely 
as  a  dimpled  babe,  and  as  innocent.  A  dimpled  babe 
she.  But  wait  until  she  grows,  and  she  will  have 
more  than  one  vice  to  demand  forgetfuless. 

Shakib,  however,  is  not  going  to  wait.  He  begins 
to  hear  the  call  of  his  own  country,  now  that  his  bank 
account  is  big  enough  to  procure  for  him  the  Pashalic 
of  Syria.  And  Khalid,  though  his  push-cart  had  de- 
veloped to  a  stationary  fruit  stand, —  and  perhaps  for 
this  very  reason, —  is  now  desirous  of  leaving  America 
anon.  He  is  afraid  of  success  overtaking  him. 
Moreover,  the  Bronx  Park  has  awakened  in  him  his 
long  dormant  love  of  Nature.  For  while  warming 
himself  on  the  flames  of  knowledge  in  the  cellar,  or 
rioting  with  the  Bassarides  of  Bohemia,  or  canvassing 
and  speechifying  for  Tammany,  he  little  thought  of 
what  he  had  deserted  in  his  native  country.  The 
[125] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

ancient  historical  rivers  flowing  through  a  land  made 
sacred  by  the  divine  madness  of  the  human  spirit;  the 
snow^-capped  mountains  at  the  feet  of  which  the  lily 
and  the  oleander  bloom;  the  pine  forests  diffusing 
their  fragrance  even  among  the  downy  clouds;  the 
peaceful,  sun-swept  multi-coloured  meadows;  the  trel- 
lised  vines,  the  fig  groves,  the  quince  orchards,  the 
orangeries:  the  absence  of  these  did  not  disturb  his 
serenity  in  the  cellar,  his  voluptuousness  in  Bohemia, 
his  enthusiasm  in  Tammany  Land. 

And  we  must  not  forget  to  mention  that,  besides  the 
divine  voice  of  Nature  and  native  soil,  he  long  since 
has  heard  and  still  hears  the  still  sweet  voice  of  one 
who  might  be  dearer  to  him  than  all.  For  Khalid, 
after  his  return  from  Bohemia,  continued  to  curse  the 
huris  in  his  dreams.  And  he  little  did  taste  of  the 
blessings  of  "  sore  labour's  bath,  balm  of  hurt  minds." 
Ay,  when  he  was  not  racked  and  harrowed  by 
nightmares,  he  was  either  disturbed  by  the  angels 
of  his  visions  or  the  succubi  of  his  dreams.  And  so,  he 
determines  to  go  to  Syria  for  a  night's  sleep,  at  least, 
of  the  innocent  and  just.  His  cousin  Najma  is  there, 
and  that  is  enough.  Once  he  sees  her,  the  huris  are 
no  more. 

Now  Shakib,  who  Is  more  faithful  in  his  narration 
than  we  first  thought  —  who  speaks  of  Khalid  as  he 
IS,  extenuating  nothing — gives  us  access  to  a  letter 
which  he  received  from  the  Bronx  a  month  before  their 
departure  from  New  York.  In  these  Letters  of 
Khalid,  which  our  Scribe  happily  preserved,  we  feel 
somewhat  relieved  of  the  dogmatism,  fantastic,  mysti- 
[126] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

cal,  severe,  which  we  often  meet  with  in  the  K.  L.  MS. 
In  his  Letters,  our  Syrian  peddler  and  seer  Is  a  plain 
blunt  man  unbosoming  himself  to  his  friend.  Read 
this,  for  instance. 

"My  loving  Brother: 

"  It  is  raining  so  hard  to-night  that  I  must  sleep,  or  in  fact 
keep,  within  doors.  Would  you  believe  it,  I  am  no  more  ac- 
customed to  the  luxuries  of  a  soft  spring-bed,  and  I  can  not 
even  sleep  on  the  floor,  where  I  have  moved  my  mattress.  I 
am  sore,  broken  in  mind  and  spirit.  Even  the  hemlock  grove 
and  the  melancholy  stillness  of  the  river,  are  beginning  to  an- 
noy me.  Oh,  I  am  tired  of  everything  here,  tired  even  of 
the  cocktails,  tired  of  the  push-cart,  tired  of  earning  as  much 
as  five  dollars  a  day.  Next  Sunday  is  inauguration  day  for 
my  stationary  fruit  stand;  but  I  don't  think  it's  going  to 
stand  there  long  enough  to  deserve  to  be  baptized  with  cham- 
pagne. If  you  come  up,  therefore,  we'll  have  a  couple  of 
steins  at  the  Hermitage  and  call  it  square. —  O,  I  would 
square  myself  with  the  doctors  by  thrusting  a  poker  down  my 
windpipe:  I  might  be  able  to  breathe  better  then.  I  pause 
to  curse  my  fate. —  Curse  it,  Juhannam-born,  curse  it !  — 

"  I  can  not  sleep,  nor  on  the  spring-bed,  nor  on  the  floor. 
It  is  two  hours  past  midnight  now,  and  I  shall  try  to  while 
away  the  time  by  scrawling  this  to  you.  My  brother,  I  can 
not  long  support  this  sort  of  life,  being  no  more  fit  for 
rough,  ignominious  labor.  '  But  why,'  you  will  ask,  '  did 
you  undertake  it?'  Yes,  why?  Strictly  speaking,  I  made  a 
mistake.  But  it's  a  noble  mistake,  believe  me  —  a  mistake 
which  everybody  in  my  condition  ought  to  make,  if  but  once 
in  their  life-time.  Is  It  not  something  to  be  able  to  make  an 
honest  resolution  and  carry  it  out?  I  have  heard  strange 
voices  in  prison ;  I  have  hearkened  to  them ;  but  I  find  that 
one  must  have  sound  lungs,  at  least,  to  be  able  to  do  the  will 
of  the  Immortal  gods.  And  even  if  he  had,  I  doubt  if  he 
could  do  much  to  suit  them  in  America.  O,  my  greatest 
enemy  and  benefactor  in  the  whole  world  Is  this  dumb- 
hearted  mother,  this  America,  in  whose  iron  loins  I  have  been 
spiritually  conceived.  Paradoxical,  this?  But  is  it  not  true? 
Was  not  the  Khalid,  now  writing  to  you,  born  in  the  cellar? 
Down  there,  in  the  very  loins  of  New  York?  But  alas,  our 
[127] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

spiritual  Mother  devours,  like  a  cat,  her  own  children.  How 
then  can  we  live  with  her  in  the  same  house? 

"  I  need  not  tell  you  now  that  the  ignominious  task  I  set  my 
hands  to,  was  never  to  my  liking.  But  the  ox  under  the  yoke 
is  not  asked  whether  he  likes  it  or  not.  I  have  been  yoked  to 
my  push-cart  by  the  immortal  gods;  and  soon  my  turn  and 
trial  will  end.  It  must  end.  For  our  country  is  just  begin- 
ning to  speak,  and  I  am  her  chosen  voice.  I  feel  that  if  I 
do  not  respond,  if  I  do  not  come  to  her,  she  will  be  dumb 
forever.  No;  I  can  not  remain  here  any  more.  For  I  can 
not  be  strenuous  enough  to  be  miserably  happy;  nor  stupid 
enough  to  be  contentedly  miserable.  I  confess  I  have  been 
spoiled  by  those  who  call  themselves  spiritual  sisters  of  mine. 
The  huris  be  dam'd.  And  if  I  don't  leave  this  country  soon, 
I'll  find  myself  sharing  the  damnation  again  —  in  Bohemia. — 

"The  power  of  the  soul  is  doubled  by  the  object  of  its 
love,  or  by  such  labor  of  love  as  it  undertakes.  But,  here  I 
am,  with  no  work  and  nobody  I  can  love;  nay,  chained  to  a 
task  which  I  now  abominate.  If  a  labor  of  love  doubles  the 
power  of  the  soul,  a  labor  of  hate,  to  use  an  antonym  term, 
warps  it,  poisons  it,  destroys  it.  Is  it  not  a  shame  that  in 
this  great  Country, —  this  Circe  with  her  golden  horns  of 
plenty, —  one  can  not  as  much  as  keep  his  blood  in  circula- 
tion without  damning  the  currents  of  one's  soul?  O  Amer- 
ica, equally  hated  and  beloved  of  Khalid,  O  Mother  of  pros- 
perity and  spiritual  misery,  the  time  will  come  when  you 
shall  see  that  your  gold  is  but  pinchbeck,  your  gilt-edge 
bonds  but  death  decrees,  and  your  god  of  wealth  a  carcase 
enthroned  upon  a  dung-hill.  But  you  can  not  see  this  now; 
for  you  are  yet  in  the  false  dawn,  floundering  tumultuously, 
■worshipping  your  mammoth  carcase  on  a  dung-hill  —  and 
devouring  your  spiritual  children.  Yes,  America  is  now  in 
the  false  dawn,  and  as  sure  as  America  lives,  the  true  dawn 
must  follow. 

"  Pardon,  Shakib.  I  did  not  mean  to  end  my  letter  in  a 
rhapsody.  But  I  am  so  wrought,  so  broken  in  body,  so  in- 
flamed in  spirit.  I  hope  to  see  you  soon.  No,  I  hope  to  see 
myself  with  you  on  board  of  a  Transatlantic  steamer." 

And  is  not  Khalid,  like  his  spiritual  Mother,  floun- 
dering, too,  in  the  false  dawn  of  life  ?     His  love  of  Na- 
[128] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

ture,  which  was  spontaneous  and  free,  is  It  not  likely 
to  become  formal  and  scientific?  His  love  of  Coun- 
try, which  begins  tremulously,  fervently  in  the  woods 
and  streams,  is  it  not  likely  to  end  in  Nephelococcygia? 
His  determination  to  work,  which  was  rudely  shaken 
at  a  push-cart,  is  it  not  become  again  a  determination 
to  loaf?  And  now,  that  he  has  a  little  money  laid  up, 
has  he  not  the  right  to  seek  in  this  world  the  cheapest 
and  most  suitable  place  for  loafing?  And  where,  if 
not  in  the  Lebanon  hills,  "  in  which  it  seemed  always 
afternoon,"  can  he  rejoin  the  Lotus-Eaters  of  the 
East?  This  man  of  visions,  this  fantastic,  rhapsodi- 
cal —  but  we  must  not  be  hard  upon  him.  Remem- 
ber, good  Reader,  the  poker  which  he  would  thrust 
down  his  windpipe  to  broaden  it  a  little.  With 
asthmatic  fits  and  tuberous  infiltrations,  one  is  per- 
mitted to  commune  with  any  of  Allah's  ministers  of 
grace  or  spirits  of  Juhannam.  And  that  divine  spark 
of  primal,  paradisical  love,  which  is  rapidly  devouring 
all  others  —  let  us  not  forget  that.  Ay,  we  mean  his 
cousin  Najma.  Of  course,  he  speaks,  too,  of  his  na- 
tion, his  people,  awaking,  lisping,  beginning  to  speak, 
waiting  for  him,  the  chosen  Voice!  Which  reminds 
us  of  how  he  was  described  to  us  by  the  hasheesh- 
smokers  of  Cairo. 

In  any  event,  the  Reader  will  rejoice  with  us,  we 
hope,  that  Khalid  will  not  turn  again  toward  Bohemia. 
He  will  agree  with  us  that,  whether  on  account  of  his 
health,  or  his  love,  or  his  mission,  it  is  well,  in  his 
present  fare  of  mind  and  body,  that  he  is  returning 
to  the  land  "  in  which  it  seemed  always  afternoon." 
[129] 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  LAST  STAR 

TS  it  not  an  ethnic  phenomenon  that  a  descendant 
of  the  ancient  Phoenicians  can  not  understand 
the  meaning  and  purport  of  the  Cash  Register  in 
America?  Is  it  not  strange  that  this  son  of  Supersti- 
tion and  Trade  can  not  find  solace  in  the  fact  that  in 
this  Pix  of  Business  is  the  Host  of  the  Demiurgic  Dol- 
lar? Indeed,  the  omnipresence  and  omnipotence  of  it 
are  not  without  divine  significance.  For  can  you  not 
see  that  this  Cash  Register,  this  Pix  of  Trade,  is 
prominently  set  up  on  the  altar  of  every  institution, 
political,  moral,  social,  and  religious?  Do  you  not 
meet  with  it  everywhere,  and  foremost  in  the  sanctu- 
aries of  the  mind  and  the  soul?  In  the  Societies  for 
the  Diffusion  of  Knowledge;  in  the  Social  Reform 
Propagandas;  in  the  Don't  Worry  Circles  of  Meta- 
physical Gymnasiums;  In  Alliances,  Philanthropic, 
Educational ;  in  the  Board  of  Foreign  Missions ;  in  the 
Sacrarium  of  Vaticinatress  Eddy;  in  the  Church  of 
God  itself;  —  is  not  the  Cash  Register  a  divine  symbol 
of  the  credo,  the  faith,  or  the  idea? 

"  To  trade,   or  not  to  trade,"   Hamlet-Khalid  ex- 
claims,  "  that  is  the  question :  whether  'tis  nobler  in 
the  mind  to  suffer,  etc.,  or  to  take  arms  against  the 
Cash  Registers  of  America,  and  by  opposing  end  — " 
[130] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

IWhat?  Sacrilegious  wretch,  would  you  set  your  face 
against  the  divinity  in  the  Holy  Pix  of  Trade?  And 
what  will  you  end,  and  how  will  You  end  by  it? 
An  eternal  problem,  this,  of  opposing  and  ending. 
But  before  you  set  your  face  in  earnest,  we  would  ask 
you  to  consider  if  the  vacancy  or  chaos  which  is  sure 
to  follow,  be  not  more  pernicious  than  what  you  would 
end.  If  you  are  sure  it  is  not,  go  ahead,  and  we  give 
you  Godspeed.  If  you  have  the  least  doubt  about  it 
—  but  Khalid  is  incapable  now  of  doubting  anything. 
And  whether  he  opposes  his  theory  of  immanent  moral- 
ity to  the  Cash  Register,  or  to  Democracy,  or  to 
the  ruling  powers  of  Flunkeydom,  we  hope  He  will 
end  well.  Such  is  the  penalty  of  revolt  against  the 
dominating  spirit  of  one's  people  and  ancestors,  that 
only  once  in  a  generation  is  it  attempted,  and  scarcely 
with  much  success.  In  fact,  the  first  who  revolts  must 
perish,  the  second,  too,  and  the  third,  and  the  fourth, 
until,  in  the  course  of  time  and  by  dint  of  repetition 
and  resistance,  the  new  species  of  the  race  can  over- 
come the  forces  of  environment  and  the  crushing  in- 
fluence of  conformity.  This,  we  know,  is  the  biologi- 
cal law,  and  Khalid  must  suffer  under  it.  For,  as 
far  as  our  knowledge  extends,  he  is  the  first  Syrian, 
the  ancient  Lebanon  monks  excepted,  who  revolted 
against  the  ruling  spirit  of  his  people  and  the  dominant 
tendencies  of  the  times,  both  In  his  native  and  his 
adopted  Countries. 

Yes,  the  etJios  of  the  Syrians  (for  once  we  use  Kha- 
lld's  philosophic  term),   like  that   of   the  Americans, 
is  essentially  money-seeking.     And  whether  In  Beirut 
[131] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

or  in  New  York,  even  the  moralists  and  reformers, 
like  the  hammals  and  grocers,  will  ask  themselves,  be- 
fore they  undertake  to  do  anything  for  you  or  for  their 
country,  "  What  will  this  profit  us?  How  much  will 
it  bring  us?  "  And  that  is  what  Khalid  once  thought 
to  oppose  and  end.  Alas,  oppose  he  might  —  and 
End  He  Must.  How  can  an  individual,  without 
the  aid  of  Time  and  the  Unseen  Powers,  hope  to  op- 
pose and  end,  or  even  change,  this  monstrous  mass  of 
things?  Yet  we  must  not  fail  to  observe  that  when 
we  revolt  against  a  tendency  inimical  to  our  law  of 
being,  it  is  for  our  own  sake,  and  not  the  race's,  that 
we  do  so.  And  we  are  glad  we  are  able  to  infer,  if 
not  from  the  K.  L.  MS.,  at  least  from  his  Letters, 
that  Khalid  is  beginning  to  realise  this  truth.  Let  us 
not,  therefore,  expatiate  further  upon  it. 

If  the  reader  will  accompany  us  now  to  the  cellar 
to  bid  our  Syrian  friends  farewell,  we  promise  a  few 
things  of  interest.  When  we  first  came  here  some  few 
years  ago  in  Winter,  or  to  another  such  underground 
dwelling,  the  water  rose  ankle-deep  over  the  floor,  and 
the  mould  and  stench  were  enough  to  knock  an  ox 
dead.  Now,  a  scent  of  ottar  of  roses  welcomes  us  at 
the  door  and  leads  us  to  a  platform  in  the  centre, 
furnished  with  a  Turkish  rug,  which  Shakib  will  pre- 
sent to  the  landlord  as  a  farewell  memento. 

And  here  are  our  three  Syrians  making  ready  for  the 
voyage.  Shakib  is  intoning  some  verses  of  his  while 
packing;  Im-Hanna  is  cooking  the  last  dish  of 
mo  i  adder  ah ;  and  Khalid,  with  some  vague  dream  in 
his  eyes,  and  a  vaguer,  far-looming  hope  in  his  heart, 
[132] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

is'  sitting  on  his  trunk  wondering  at  the  variety  of 
things  Shakib  is  cramming  into  his.  For  our  Scribe, 
we  must  not  fail  to  remind  the  Reader,  is  contemplat- 
ing great  things  of  State,  is  nourishing  a  great  political 
ambition.  He  will,  therefore,  bethink  him  of  those  in 
power  at  home.  Hence  these  costly  presents.  Ay,  be- 
sides the  plated  jewellery  —  the  rings,  bracelets, 
brooches,  necklaces,  ear-rings,  watches,  and  chains  — 
of  which  he  is  bringing  enough  to  supply  the  peasants 
of  three  villages,  see  that  beautiful  gold-knobbed  ebony 
stick,  which  he  will  present  to  the  vali,  and  this 
precious  gold  cross  with  a  ruby  at  the  heart  for  the 
Patriarch,  and  these  gold  fountain  pens  for  his  literary 
friends,  and  that  fine  Winchester  rifle  for  the  chief  of 
the  tribe  Anezah.  These  he  packs  in  the  bottom  of 
his  trunk,  and  with  them  his  precious  dilapidated  copy 
of  Al-Mutanabbi,  and  —  what  MS.  be  this?  What, 
a  Book  of  Verse  spawned  in  the  cellar?  Indeed,  the 
very  embryo  of  that  printed  copy  we  read  in  Cairo, 
and  which  Shakib  and  his  friends  would  have  us  trans- 
late for  the  benefit  of  the  English  reading  public. 

For  our  Scribe  is  the  choragus  of  the  Modern 
School  of  Arabic  poetry.  And  this  particular  Diwan 
of  his  is  a  sort  of  rhymed  inventory  of  all  the  inven- 
tions and  discoveries  of  modern  Science  and  all  the 
wonders  of  America.  He  has  published  other  Diwans, 
in  which  French  morbidity  is  crowned  with  laurels 
from  the  Arabian  Nights.  For  this  Modern  School 
has  two  opposing  wings,  moved  by  two  opposing 
forces,  Science  being  the  motive  power  of  the  one,  and 
Byron  and  De  Musset  the  inspiring  geniuses  of  the 
[133] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

other.  We  would  not  be  faithful  to  our  Editorial 
task  and  to  our  Friend,  if  we  did  not  give  here  a  few 
luminant  examples  of  the  Dlwan  in  question.  We 
are,  indeed,  very  sorry,  for  the  sake  of  our  readers,  that 
space  will  not  allow  us  to  give  them  a  few  whole 
qasidahs  from  it.  To  those  who  are  so  fortunate  as 
to  be  able  to  read  and  understand  the  Original,  we 
point  out  the  Ode  to  the  Phonograph,  beginning  thus: 

"  O  Phonograph,  thou  wonder  of  our  time, 
Thy  tongue  of  wax  can   sing  like  me  in  rhyme." 

And  another  to  the  Brooklyn  Bridge,  of  which 
these  are  the  opening  lines: 

"  O  Brooklyn  Bridge,  how  oft  upon  thy  back 
I  tramped,  and  once  I  crossed  thee  in  a  hack." 

And  finally,  the  great  Poem  entitled.  On  the  Vir- 
tue and  Benefit  of  Modern  Science,  of  which  we  re- 
member these  couplets: 

"Balloons  and   airships,  falling  from  the  skies, 
Will  be  as  plenty  yet  as  summer  flies. 

"  Electricity  and  Steam  and  Compressed  Air 
Will  carry  us  to  heaven  yet,  I  swear." 

Here  be  rhymed  truth,  at  least,  which  can  boast  of 
not  being  poetry.  Ay,  in  this  MS.  which  Shakib  is 
packing  along  with  Al-Mutanabbi  in  the  bottom  of  his 
trunk  to  evade  the  Basilisk  touch  of  the  Port  officials  of 
Beirut,  is  packed  all  the  hopes  of  the  Modern  School. 
[134] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

Pack  on,  Shakib;  for  whether  at  the  Mena  House,  or 
in  the  hasheesh-dens  of  Cairo,  the  Future  is  drinking 
to  thee,  and  dreaming  of  thee  and  thy  School  its  opium 
dreams.  And  Khalid,  the  while,  sits  impassive  on  his 
trunk,  and  Im-Hanna  is  cooking  the  last  dinner  of 
mojadderah. 

Emigration  has  introduced  into  Syria  somewhat  of 
the  three  prominent  features  of  Civilisation :  namely,  a 
little  wealth,  a  few  modern  ideas,  and  many  strange 
diseases.  And  of  these  three  blessings  our  two  Syrians 
together  are  plentifully  endowed.  For  Shakib  is  a 
type  of  the  emigrant,  who  returns  home  prosperous  in 
every  sense  of  the  word.  A  Book  of  Verse  to  lure 
Fame,  a  Letter  of  Credit  to  bribe  her  if  necessary,  and 
a  double  chin  to  praise  the  gods.  This  is  a  complete 
set  of  the  prosperity,  which  Khalid  knows  not.  But 
he  has  in  his  lungs  what  Shakib  the  poet  can  not  boast 
of;  while  in  his  trunk  he  carries  but  a  little  wearing 
apparel,  his  papers,  and  his  blankets.  And  in  his 
pocket,  he  has  his  ribbed  silver  cigarette  case  —  the 
only  object  he  can  not  part  with  —  a  heart-shaped 
locket  with  a  little  diamond  star  on  its  face  —  the 
only  present  he  is  bringing  with  him  home, —  and  a 
third-class  passage  across  the  Atlantic.  For  Khalid 
will  not  sleep  in  a  bunk,  even  though  it  be  furnished 
with  eiderdown  cushions  and  tiger  skins. 

And  since  he  is  determined  to  pass  his  nights  on 
deck,  it  matters  little  whether  he  travels  first  class,  or 
second  or  tenth.  Shakib,  do  what  he  may,  cannot  pre- 
vail upon  him  to  accept  the  first-class  passage  he  had 
bought  in  his  name.  "  Let  us  not  quarrel  about  this," 
[135] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

says  he ;  "  we  shall  be  together  on  board  the  same  ship, 
and  that  settles  the  question.  Indeed,  the  worse  way 
returning  home  must  be  ultimately  the  best.  No, 
Shakib,  it  matters  not  how  I  travel,  if  I  but  get  away 
quickly  from  this  pandemonium  of  Civilisation. 
Even  now,  as  I  sit  on  this  trunk  waiting  for  the  hour 
of  departure,  I  have  a  foretaste  of  the  joy  of  being 
away  from  the  insidious  cries  of  hawkers,  the  torment- 
ing bells  of  the  rag-man,  the  incessant  howling  of  chil- 
dren, the  rumbling  of  carts  and  wagons,  the  malicious 
whir  of  cable  cars,  the  grum  shrieks  of  ferry  boats,  and 
the  thundering,  reverberating,  smoking,  choking,  blind- 
ing abomination  of  an  elevated  railway.  A  musician 
might  extract  some  harmony  from  this  chaos  of  noises, 
this  jumble  of  sounds.  But  I  —  extract  me  quickly 
from  them !  " 

Ay,  quickly  please,  especially  for  our  sake  and  the 
Reader's.  Now,  the  dinner  is  finished,  the  rug  Is 
folded  and  presented  to  our  landlord  with  our  salaams, 
the  trunks  are  locked  and  roped,  and  our  Arabs  will 
silently  steal  away.  And  peacefully,  too,  were  It  not 
that  an  hour  before  sailing  a  capped  messenger  is  come 
to  deliver  a  message  to  Shakib.  There  is  a  pleasant 
dilative  sensation  in  receiving  a  message  on  board  a 
steamer,  especially  when  the  messenger  has  to  seek  you 
among  the  Salon  passengers.  Now,  Shakib  dilates  with 
pride  as  he  takes  the  envelope  in  his  hand;  but  when 
he  opens  it,  and  reads  on  the  enclosed  card,  "  Mr. 
Isaac  Goldheimer  wishes  you  a  bon  voyage,"  he  turns 
quickly  on  his  heels  and  goes  on  deck  to  walk  his  wrath 
away.  For  this  Mr.  Goldheimer  is  the  very  landlord 
[136] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

who  received  the  Turkish  rug.  Reflect  on  this, 
Reader.  Father  Abraham  would  have  walked  with  us 
to  the  frontier  to  betoken  his  thanks  and  gratitude. 
"  But  this  modern  Jew  and  his  miserable  card,"  ex- 
claims Shakib  in  his  teeth,  as  he  tears  and  throws  it  in 
the  water, — "  who  asked  him  to  send  it,  and  who 
would  have  sued  him  if  he  didn't?  " 

But  Shakib,  who  has  lived  so  long  in  America  and 
traded  with  its  people,  is  yet  ignorant  of  some  of  the 
fine  forms  and  conventions  of  Civilisation.  He 
does  not  know  that  fashionable  folk,  or  those  aping 
the  dear  fashionable  folk,  have  a  right  to  assert  their 
superiority  at  his  expense.  —  I  do  not  care  to  see  you, 
but  I  will  send  a  messenger  and  card  to  do  so  for  me. 
You  are  not  my  equal,  and  I  will  let  you  know  this, 
even  at  the  hour  of  your  departure,  and  though  I  have 
to  hire  a  messenger  to  do  so.  —  Is  there  no  taste,  no 
feeling,  no  gratitude  in  this?  Don't  you  wish,  O 
Shakib,  —  but  compose  yourself.  And  think  not  so  ill 
of  your  Jewish  landlord,  whom  you  wish  you  could 
wrap  in  that  rug  and  throw  overboard.  He  certainly 
meant  well.  That  formula  of  card  and  messenger  is 
so  convenient  and  so  cheap.  Withal,  is  he  not  too 
busy,  think  you,  to  come  up  to  the  dock  for  the  puerile, 
prosaic  purpose  of  shaking  hands  and  saying  ta-ta? 
If  you  can  not  consider  the  matter  in  this  light,  try  to 
forget  it.  One  must  not  be  too  visceral  at  the  hour  of 
departure.  Behold,  your  skyscrapers  and  your  Statue 
of  Liberty  are  now  receding  from  view;  and  your 
landlord  and  his  card  and  messenger  will  be  further 
from  us  every  while  we  think  of  them,  until,  thanks  to 
[137] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

Time  and  Space  and  Steam!  they  will  be  too  far  away 
to  be  remembered. 

Here,  then,  with  our  young  Seer  and  our  Scribe, 
we  bid  New  York  farewell,  and  earnestly  hope  that 
we  do  not  have  to  return  to  it  again,  or  permit  any 
of  them  to  do  so.  In  fact,  we  shall  not  hereafter  con- 
sider, with  any  ulterior  material  or  spiritual  motive, 
any  more  of  such  disparaging,  denigrating  matter,  in 
the  two  MSS.  before  us,  as  has  to  pass  through  our  re- 
luctant hands  "  touchin'  on  and  appertainin'  to  "  the 
great  City  of  Manhattan  and  its  distinguished 
denizens.  For  our  part,  we  have  had  enough  of  this 
painful  task.  And  truly,  we  have  never  before  under- 
gone such  trials  in  sailing  between  —  but  that 
Charybdis  and  Scylla  allusion  has  been  done  to  death. 
Indeed,  we  love  America,  and  in  the  course  of  our 
present  task,  which  we  also  love,  we  had  to  suffer 
Khalid's  shafts  to  pass  through  our  ken  and  sometimes 
really  through  our  heart.  But  no  more  of  this.  Ay, 
we  would  fain  set  aside  our  pen  from  sheer  weariness 
of  spirit  and  bid  the  Reader,  too,  farewell.  Truly,  we 
would  end  here  this  Book  of  Khalid  were  it  not  that 
the  greater  part  of  the  most  important  material  in  the 
K.  L.  MS.  is  yet  intact,  and  the  more  interesting  por- 
tion of  Shakib's  History  is  yet  to  come.  Our  readers, 
though  we  do  not  think  they  are  sorry  for  having  come 
out  with  us  so  far,  are  at  liberty  either  to  continue 
with  us,  or  say  good-bye.  But  for  the  Editor  there  is 
no  choice.  What  we  have  begun  we  must  end,  un- 
mindful of  the  influence,  good  or  ill,  of  the  Zodiacal 
Signs  under  which  we  work. 
[138] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

"  Our  Phoenician  ancestors,"  says  Khalid,  "  never 
left  anything  they  undertook  unfinished.  Consider 
what  they  accomph'shed  in  their  days,  and  the  degree 
of  culture  they  attained.  The  most  beautiful  fabrica- 
tions in  metals  and  precious  stones  were  prepared  in 
Syria.  Here,  too,  the  most  important  discoveries  were 
made:  namely,  those  of  glass  and  purple.  As  for  me, 
I  can  not  understand  what  the  Murex  trunculus  is; 
and  I  am  not  certain  if  scholars  and  archseologists,  or 
even  mariners  and  fishermen,  will  ever  find  a  fossil 
of  that  particular  species.  But  murex  or  no  murex, 
Purple  was  discovered  by  my  ancestors.  Hence  the 
purple  passion,  that  is  to  say  the  energy  and  intensity 
which  coloured  everything  they  did,  everything  they 
felt  and  believed.  For  whether  in  bemoaning  Tam- 
muz,  or  in  making  tear-bottles,  or  in  trading  with  the 
Gauls  and  Britons,  the  Phoenicians  were  the  same 
superstitious,  honest,  passionate,  energetic  people. 
And  do  not  forget,  you  who  are  now  enjoying  the 
privilege  of  setting  doum  your  thoughts  in  words,  that 
on  these  shores  of  Syria  written  language  received  its 
first  development. 

"  It  is  also  said  that  they  discovered  and  first  navi- 
gated the  Atlantic  Ocean,  my  Phoenicians;  that  they 
worked  gold  mines  in  the  distant  isle  of  Thasos  and 
opened  silver  mines  in  the  South  and  Southwest  of 
Spain.  In  Africa,  we  know,  they  founded  the  colonies 
of  Utica  and  Carthage.  But  we  are  told  they  went 
farther  than  this.  And  according  to  some  historians, 
they  rounded  the  Cape,  they  circumnavigated  Africa. 
And  according  to  recent  discoveries  made  by  an 
[139] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

American  archaeologist,  they  must  have  discovered 
America  too!  For  in  the  ruins  of  the  Aztecs  of 
Mexico  there  are  traces  of  a  Phoenician  language  and 
religion.  This,  about  the  discovery  of  America,  how- 
ever, I  can  not  verify  with  anything  from  Sanchunia- 
thon.  But  might  they  not  have  made  this  discovery 
after  the  said  Sanchuniathon  had  given  up  the  ghost? 
And  if  they  did,  what  can  We,  their  worthless  de- 
scendants do  for  them  now?  Ah,  if  we  but  knew  the 
name  of  their  Columbus!  No,  it  is  not  practical  to 
build  a  monument  to  a  whole  race  of  people.  And 
yet,  they  deserve  more  than  this  from  us,  their  de- 
scendants. 

"  These  dealers  in  tin  and  amber,  these  manufactur- 
ers of  glass  and  purple,  these  developers  of  a  written 
language,  first  gave  the  impetus  to  man's  activity  and 
courage  and  intelligence.  And  this  activity  of  the  in- 
dustry and  will  is  not  dead  in  man.  It  may  be  dead 
in  us  Syrians,  but  not  in  the  Americans.  In  their 
strenuous  spirit  it  rises  uppermost.  After  all,  I  must 
love  the  Americans,  for  they  are  my  Phoenician  ances- 
tors incarnate.  Ay,  there  is  in  the  nature  of  things  a 
mysterious  recurrence  which  makes  for  a  continuous, 
everlasting  modernit)%  And  I  believe  that  the  spirit 
which  moved  those  brave  sea-daring  navigators  of  yore, 
is  still  working  lustily,  bravely,  but  alas,  not  joyously 
—  bitterly,  rather,  selfishly,  greedily  —  behind  the 
steam  engine,  the  electric  motor,  the  plough,  and  in  the 
clinic  and  the  studio  as  in  the  Stock  Exchange.  That 
spirit  in  its  real  essence,  however,  is  as  young,  as  puis- 
sant to-day  as  it  was  when  the  native  of  Byblus  first 
[140] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

struck  out  to  explore  the  seas,  to  circumnavigate 
Africa,  to  discover  even  America !  " 

And  what  in  the  end  might  Khalid  discover  for  us 
or  for  himself,  at  least,  in  his  explorations  of  the 
Spirit-World?  What  Colony  of  the  chosen  sons  of 
the  young  and  puissant  Spirit,  on  some  distant  isle  be- 
yond the  seven  seas,  might  he  found?  To  what  far, 
silent,  undulating  shore,  where  "  a  written  language  is 
the  instrument  only  of  the  lofty  expressions  and  aspir- 
ations of  the  soul"  might  he  not  bring  us?  What 
Cape  of  Truth  in  the  great  Sea  of  Mystery  might  we 
not  be  able  to  circumnavigate,  if  only  this  were  pos- 
sible of  the  language  of  man? 

"  Not  with  glass,"  he  exclaims,  "  not  with  tear- 
bottles,  not  with  purple,  not  with  a  written  language, 
am  I  now  concerned,  but  rather  with  what  those  in 
Purple  and  those  who  make  this  written  language  their 
capital,  can  bring  within  our  reach  of  the  treasures 
of  the  good,  the  true,  and  the  beautiful.  I  would  fain 
find  a  land  where  the  soul  of  man,  and  the  heart  of 
man,  and  the  mind  of  man,  are  as  the  glass  of  my  an- 
cestors' tear-bottles  in  their  enduring  quality  and 
beauty.  My  ancestors'  tear-bottles,  and  though  buried 
in  the  earth  ten  thousand  years,  lose  not  a  grain  of 
their  original  purity  and  transparency,  of  their  soft  and 
iridescent  colouring.  But  where  is  the  natural  colour 
and  beauty  of  these  human  souls,  burled  in  bunks  under 
hatches?  Or  of  those  moving  in  high-lacquered  salons 
above?     .     . 

"  O  my  Brothers  of  the  clean  and  unclean  species, 
of  the  scented  and  smelling  kind,  of  the  have  and  have- 
[141] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

not  classes,  there  is  but  one  star  in  this  vague  dusky 
sky  above  us,  for  you  as  for  myself.  And  that  star 
is  either  the  last  in  the  eternal  darkness,  or  the  first 
in  the  rising  dawn.  It  is  either  the  first  or  the  last 
star  of  night.  And  who  shall  say  which  it  is?  Not 
the  Church,  surely,  nor  the  State;  not  Science,  nor 
Sociology,  nor  Philosophy,  nor  Religion.  But  the  hu- 
man will  shall  influence  that  star  and  make  it  yield 
its  secret  and  its  fire.  Each  of  you,  O  my  Brothers, 
can  make  it  light  his  own  hut,  warm  his  own  heart, 
guide  his  own  soul.  Never  before  in  the  history  of 
man  did  it  seem  as  necessary  as  it  does  now  that  each 
individual  should  think  for  himself,  will  for  himself, 
and  aspire  incessantly  for  the  realisation  of  his  ideals 
and  dreams.  Yes,  we  are  to-day  at  a  terrible  and 
glorious  turning  point,  and  it  depends  upon  us  whether 
that  one  star  in  the  vague  and  dusky  sky  of  modern 
life,  shall  be  the  harbinger  of  Jannat  or  Juhannam." 


[142] 


CHAPTER  V 

PRIESTO-PARENTAL 

TF  we  remember  that  the  name  of  Khalid's  cousin 
is  Najma  (Star),  the  significance  to  himself  of 
the  sign  spoken  of  in  the  last  Chapter,  is  quite  evident. 
But  what  it  means  to  others  remains  to  be  seen.  His 
one  star,  however,  judging  from  his  month's  experi- 
ence in  Baalbek,  is  not  promising  of  Jannat.  For 
many  things,  including  parental  tyranny  and  priest- 
craft and  Jesuitism,  will  here  conspire  against  the 
single  blessedness  of  him,  which  is  now  seeking  to 
double  itself. 

"  Where  one  has  so  many  Fathers,"  he  writes, 
"  and  all  are  pretending  to  be  the  guardians  of  his 
spiritual  and  material  well-being,  one  ought  to  re- 
nounce them  all  at  once.  It  was  not  with  a  purpose 
to  rejoin  my  folk  that  I  first  determined  to  return  to 
my  native  country.  For,  while  I  believe  in  the 
Family,  I  hate  Familism,  which  is  the  curse  of  the 
human  race.  And  I  hate  this  spiritual  Fatherhood 
when  it  puts  on  the  garb  of  a  priest,  the  three-cornered 
hat  of  a  Jesuit,  the  hood  of  a  monk,  the  gaberdine  of  a 
rabbi,  or  the  jubbah  of  a  sheikh.  The  sacredness  of 
the  Individual,  not  of  the  Family  or  the  Church,  do 
I  proclaim.  For  Familism,  or  the  propensity  to  keep 
under  the  same  roof,  as  a  social  principle,  out  of  fear, 
[143] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

ignorance,  cowardice,  or  dependence,  is,  I  repeat,  the 
curse  of  the  world.  Your  father  is  he  who  is  friendly 
and  reverential  to  the  higher  being  in  you;  your 
brothers  are  those  who  can  appreciate  the  height  and 
depth  of  your  spirit,  who  hearken  to  you,  and  believe 
in  you,  if  you  have  any  truth  to  announce  to  them. 
Surely,  one's  value  is  not  in  his  skin  that  you  should 
touch  him.  Are  there  any  two  individuals  more  closely 
related  than  mother  and  son?  And  yet,  when 
I  Khalid  embrace  my  mother,  mingling  my  tears  with 
hers,  I  feel  that  my  soul  is  as  distant  from  her  own 
as  is  Baalbek  from  the  Dog-star.  And  so  I  say,  this 
attempt  to  bind  together  under  the  principle  of  Fami- 
lism  conflicting  spirits,  and  be  it  in  the  name  of  love 
or  religion  or  anything  else  more  or  less  sacred,  is  in 
itself  a  very  curse,  and  should  straightway  end.  It 
will  end,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned.  And  thou  my 
Brother,  whether  thou  be  a  son  of  the  Morning  or  of 
the  Noontide  or  of  the  Dusk, —  whether  thou  be  a 
Japanese  or  a  Syrian  or  a  British  man  —  if  thou  art 
likewise  circumstanced,  thou  shouldst  do  the  same,  not 
only  for  thine  own  sake,  but  for  the  sake  of  thy  fam- 
ily as  well." 

No;  Khalid  did  not  find  that  wholesome  plant  of 
domestic  peace  in  his  mother's  Nursery.  He  found 
noxious  weeds,  rather,  and  brambles  galore.  And 
they  were  planted  there,  not  by  his  father  or  mother, 
but  by  those  who  have  a  lien  upon  the  souls  of  these 
poor  people.  For  the  priest  here  is  no  peeled, 
polished  affair,  but  shaggy,  scrubby,  terrible,  for- 
bidding. And  with  a  word  he  can  open  yet,  for 
[144] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

such  as  Khalid's  folk,  the  gate  which  Peter  keeps  or 
the  other  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Universe. 
Khalid  must  beware,  therefore,  how  he  conducts  him- 
self at  home  and  abroad,  and  how,  in  his  native  town, 
he  delivers  his  mind  on  sacred  things,  and  profane. 
In  New  York,  for  instance,  or  in  Turabu  for  that 
matter,  he  could  say  in  plain  forthright  speech  what 
he  thought  of  Family,  Church  or  State,  and  no  one 
would  mind  him.  But  where  these  Institutions  are 
the  rottenest  existing  he  will  be  minded  too  well,  and 
reminded,  too,  of  the  fate  of  those  who  preceded 
him. 

The  case  of  Habib  Ish-Shidiak  at  Kannubin  is  not 
yet  forgotten.  And  Habib,  be  it  known,  was  only  a 
poor  Protestant  neophite  who  took  pleasure  in  carry- 
ing a  small  copy  of  the  Bible  in  his  hip  pocket,  and 
was  just  learning  to  roll  his  eyes  in  the  pulpit 
and  invoke  the  "  laud."  But  Khalid,  everybody  out- 
protesting,  is  such  an  intractable  protestant,  with 
neither  Bible  in  his  pocket  nor  pulpit  at  his  service. 
And  yet,  with  a  flint  on  his  tongue  and  a  spark  in 
his  eyes,  he  will  make  the  neophite  Habib  smile  beside 
him.  For  the  priesthood  in  Syria  is  not,  as  we  have 
said,  a  peeled,  polished,  pulpy  affair.  And  Khalid's 
father  has  been  long  enough  in  their  employ  to  learn 
somewhat  of  their  methods.  Bigotry,  cruelty,  and 
tyranny  at  home,  priestcraft  and  Jesuitism  abroad, — • 
these,  O  Khalid,  you  will  know  better  by  force  of 
contact  before  you  end.  And  you  will  begin  to  pine 
again  for  your  iron-loined  spiritual  Mother.  Ay,  and 
the  scelerate  Jesuit  will  even  make  capital  of  your 
[145] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

mass  of  flowing  hair.  For  in  this  country,  only  the 
native  priests  are  privileged  to  be  shaggy  and  scrubby 
and  still  be  without  suspicion.  But  we  will  let 
Shakib  give  us  a  few  not  uninteresting  details  of  the 
matter. 

"  Not  long  after  we  had  rejoined  our  people,"  he 
writes,  "  Khalid  comes  to  me  with  a  sorry  tale.  In 
truth,  a  fortnight  after  our  arrival  in  Baalbek  —  our 
civility  towards  new  comers  seldom  enjoys  a  longer 
lease  —  the  town  was  alive  with  rumours  and  whim- 
whams  about  my  friend.  And  whereso  I  went,  I  was 
not  a  little  annoyed  with  the  tehees  and  grunts  which 
his  name  seemed  to  invoke.  The  women  often  came  to 
his  mother  to  inquire  in  particular  why  he  grows  his 
hair  and  shaves  his  mustaches;  the  men  would  speak 
to  his  father  about  the  change  in  his  accent  and  man- 
ners; the  children  teheed  and  tittered  whenever  he 
passed  through  the  town-square ;  and  all  were  of  one 
mind  that  Khalid  was  a  worthless  fellow,  who  had 
brought  nothing  with  him  from  the  Paradise  of  the 
New  World  but  his  cough  and  his  fleece.  Such  tattle 
and  curiosity,  however,  no  matter  what  degree  of 
savage  vulgarity  they  reach,  are  quite  harmless.  But 
I  felt  somewhat  uneasy  about  him,  when  I  heard  the 
people  asking  each  other,  "  Why  does  he  not  come  to 
Church  like  honest  folks?"  And  soon  I  discovered 
that  my  apprehensions  were  well  grounded ;  for  the 
questioning  was  noised  at  Khalid's  door,  and  the  fire 
crackled  under  the  roof  within.  The  father  com- 
mands; the  mother  begs;  the  father  objurgates, 
threatens,  curses  his  son's  faith;  and  the  mother,  pros- 
[146] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

trating  herself  before  the  Virgin,  weeps,  and  prays, 
and  beats  her  breast.  Alas,  and  my  Khalid?  he 
goes  out  on  the  terrace  to  search  in  the  Nursery  for 
his  favourite  Plant,  No,  he  does  not  find  it; 
brambles  are  there  and  noxious  weeds  galore.  The 
thorny,  bitter  reality  he  must  now  face,  and,  by 
reason  of  his  lack  of  savoir-faire,  be  ultimately  out- 
faced by  it.  For  the  upshot  of  the  many  quarrels  he 
had  with  his  father,  the  prayers  and  tears  of  the 
mother  not  availing,  was  nothing  more  or  less  than 
banishment.  You  will  either  go  to  Church  like  my- 
self, or  get  out  of  this  house:  this  the  ultimatum  of 
Abu-Khalid.  And  needless  to  say  which  alternative 
the  son  chose. 

•  "  I  still  remember  how  agitated  he  was  when  he 
came  to  tell  me  of  the  fatal  breach.  His  words, 
which   drew    tears   from   my   eyes,    I    remember   too. 

*  Homeless  I  am  again,'  said  he,  '  but  not  friendless. 
For  besides  Allah,  I  have  you. —  Oh,  this  straitness 
of  the  chest  is  going  to  kill  me.  I  feel  that  my  wind- 
pipe is  getting  narrower  every  day.  At  least,  my 
father  is  doing  his  mighty  best  to  make  things  so  hard 
and  strait.  —  Yes,  I  would  have  come  now  to  bid  you 
farewell,  were  it  not  that  I  still  have  in  this  town  some 
important  business.  In  the  which  I  ask  your  help. 
You  know  what  it  is.  I  have  often  spoken  to  you 
about  my  cousin  Najma,  the  one  star  in  my  sky. 
And  now,  I  would  know  what  is  its  significance  to 
me.  No,  I  can  not  leave  Baalbek,  I  can  not  do  any- 
thing, until  that  star  unfolds  the  night  or  the  dawn 
of  my  destiny.     And  you   Shakib — ' 

[147] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

"  Of  course,  I  promised  to  do  what  I  could  for 
him.  I  offered  him  such  cheer  and  comfort  as  my 
home  could  boast  of,  which  he  would  not  accept.  He 
would  have  only  my  terrace  roof  on  which  to  build 
a  booth  of  pine  boughs,  and  spread  in  it  a  few  straw 
mats  and  cushions.  But  I  was  disappointed  in  my 
calculations;  for  in  having  him  thus  near  me  again, 
I  had  hoped  to  prevail  upon  him  for  his  own  good 
to  temper  his  behaviour,  to  conform  a  little>  to  con- 
cede somewhat,  while  he  is  among  his  people.  But 
virtually  he  did  not  put  up  with  me.  He  ate  out- 
side; he  spent  his  days  I  know  not  where;  and  when 
he  did  come  to  his  booth,  it  was  late  in  the  night.  I 
was  informed  later  that  one  of  the  goatherds  saw 
him  sleeping  in  the  ruined  Temple  near  Ras'ul-Ain. 
And  the  muazzen  who  sleeps  in  the  Mosque  adjacent 
to  the  Temple  of  Venus  gave  out  that  one  night  he 
saw  him  with  a  woman  in  that  very  place." 

A  woman  with  KJialid,  and  in  the  Temple  of 
Venus  at  night?  Be  not  too  quick,  O  Reader,  to 
suspect  and  contemn;  for  the  Venus-worship  is  not 
reinstated  in  Baalbek.  No  tryst  this,  believe  us,  but 
a  scene  pathetic,  more  sacred.  Not  Najma  this 
questionable  companion,  but  one  as  dear  to  Khalid. 
Ay,  it  is  his  mother  come  to  seek  him  here.  And  she 
begs  him,  in  the  name  of  the  Virgin,  to  return  home, 
and  try  to  do  the  will  of  his  father.  She  beats  her 
breast,  weeps,  prostrates  herself  before  him,  be- 
seeches, implores,  cries  out,  '  dakhilak  (I  am  at  your 
mercy),  come  home  with  me.'  And  Khalid,  taking  her 
up  by  the  arm,  embraces  her  and  weeps,  but  says  not  a 
[148] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

word.  As  two  statues  in  the  Temple,  silent  as  an 
autumn  midnight,  they  remain  thus  locked  in  each 
other's  arms,  sobbing,  mingling  their  sighs  and  tears. 
The  mother  then,  '  Come,  come  home  with  me,  O  my 
child.'  And  Khalid,  sitting  on  one  of  the  steps  of 
the  Temple,  replies,  *  Let  him  move  out  of  the  house, 
and  I  will  come.  I  will  live  with  you,  if  he  will 
keep  at  the  Jesuits.'  " 

For  Khalid  begins  to  suspect  that  the  Jesuits  are 
the  cause  ot  his  banishment  from  home,  that  his 
father's  religious  ferocity  is  fuelled  and  fanned  by 
these  good  people.  One  day,  before  Khalid  was 
banished,  Shakib  tells  us,  one  of  them.  Father 
Farouche  by  name,  comes  to  pay  a  visit  of  courtesy, 
and  finds  Khalid  sitting  cross-legged  on  a  mat  writing 
a  letter. 

The  Padre  is  received  by  Khalid's  mother  who 
takes  his  hand,  kisses  it,  and  offers  him  the  seat 
of  honour  on  the  divan.  Khalid  continues  writing. 
And  after  he  had  finished,  he  turns  round  in  his 
cross-legged  posture  and  greets  his  visitor.  Which 
greeting  is  surely  to  be  followed  by  a  conversation  of 
the  sword-and-shield  kind. 

"  How  is  jour  health?"  this  from  Father  Farouche 
in  miserable  Arabic. 

"As  you  see:  I  breathe  with  an  effort,  and  can 
hardly  speak." 

"  But  the  health  of  the  body  is  nothing  compared 
with  the  health  of  the  soul." 

"  I  know  that  too  well,  O  Reverend "  (Ya 
Muhtaram). 

[149] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

'*'  And  one  must  have  recourse  to  the  physician 
in  both  instances." 

"  I  do  not  believe  in  physicians,  O  Reverend." 

"Not  even  the  physician  of  the  soul?" 

"  You  said  it,  O  Reverend." 

The  mother  of  Khalid  serves  the  coffee,  and  whis- 
pers to  her  son  a  word.  Whereupon  Khalid  rises 
and  sits  on  the  divan  near  the  Padre. 

"  But  one  must  follow  the  religion  of  one's  father," 
the  Jesuit  resumes. 

"  When  one's  father  has  a  religion,  yes ;  but 
when  he  curses  the  religion  of  his  son  for  not  being 
ferociously  religious  like  himself — " 

"  But  a  father  must  counsel  and  guide  his  children." 

"  Let  the  mother  do  that.  Hers  is  the  purest 
and  most  disinterested  spirit  of  the  two." 

"  Then,  why  not  obey  your  mother,  and  — " 

Khalid  suppresses  his  anger. 

"  My  mother  and  I  can  get  along  without  the 
interference  of  our  neighbours." 

"  Yes,  truly.  But  you  will  find  great  solace  in 
going  to   Church   and  ceasing  your  doubts." 

Khalid  rises  indignant. 

"  I  only  doubt  the  Pharisees,  O  Reverend,  and 
their  Church  I  would  destroy  to-day  if  I  could." 

"My  child— " 

"  Here  is  your  hat,  O  Reverend,  and  pardon 
me  —  you  see,  I  can  hardly  speak,  I  can  hardly 
breathe.     Good  day." 

And  he  walks  out  of  the  house,  leaving  Father 
Farouche  to  digest  his  ire  at  his  ease,  and  to  wonder, 
[150] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

with  his  three-cornered  hat  in  hand,  at  the  savage  de- 
meanour of  the  son  of  their  pious  porter.  "  Your 
son,"  addressing  the  mother  as  he  stands  under  the 
door-lintel,  "  is  not  only  an  infidel,  but  he  is  also 
crazy.  And  for  such  wretches  there  is  an  asylum 
here  and  a  Juhannam  hereafter." 

And  the  poor  mother,  her  face  suffused  with  tears, 
prostrates  herself  before  the  Virgin,  praying,  beating 
her  breast,  invoking  with  her  tongue  and  hand  and 
heart;  while  Farouche  returns  to  his  coop  to  hatch 
under  his  three-cornered  hat,  the  famous  Jesuit-egg 
of  intrigue.  That  hat,  which  can  outwit  the  monk's 
hood  and  the  hundred  fabled  devils  under  it,  that 
hat,  with  its  many  gargoyles,  a  visible  symbol  of  the 
leaky  conscience  of  the  Jesuit,  that  hat,  O  Khalid, 
which  you  would  have  kicked  out  of  your  house,  has 
eventually  succeeded  in  ousting  YOU,  and  will  do 
its  mighty  best  yet  to  send  you  to  the  Bosphorus.  In- 
deed, to  serve  their  purpose,  these  honest  servitors  of 
Jesus  will  even  act  as  spies  to  the  criminal  Government 
of  Abd'ul-Hamid.     Read  Shakib's  account. 

"  About  a  fortnight  after  Khalid's  banishment  from 
home,"  he  writes,  "  a  booklet  was  published  in  Bei- 
rut, setting  forth  the  history  of  Ignatius  Loyola  and 
the  purports  and  intents  of  Jesuitism.  On  the  cover 
it  was  expressly  declared  that  the  booklet  is  trans- 
lated from  the  English,  and  the  Jesuits,  who  are  noted 
for  their  scholarly  attainments,  could  have  discovered 
this  for  themselves  without  the  explicit  declaration. 
But  they  did  not  deem  it  necessary  to  make  such  a 
discovery  then.  It  seemed  rather  imperative  to  main- 
[151] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

tain  the  contrary  and  try  to  prove  it.  Now,  Khalid 
having  received  a  copy  of  this  booklet  from  a  friend 
in  Beirut,  reads  it  and  writes  back,  saying  that  it 
is  not  a  translation  but  a  mutilation,  rather,  of  one 
of  Thomas  Carlyle's  Latter-Day  Pamphlets  entitled 
Jesuitism.  This  letter  must  have  reached  them 
together  with  Father  Farouche's  report  on  Khalid's 
infidelity,  just  about  the  time  the  booklet  was  circu- 
lating in  Baalbek.  For  in  the  following  Number  of 
their  Weekly  Journal  an  article,  stuffed  and  padded 
with  execrations  and  anathema,  is  published  against 
the  book  and  its  anonymous  author.  From  this  I 
quote  the  following,  which  is  by  no  means  the  most 
erring  and  most  poisonous  of  their  shafts. 

Such  a  Pamphlet,'  exclaims  the  scholarly  Jesuit 
Editor,  *  M'as  never  written  by  Thomas  Carlyle,  as 
some  here,  from  ignorance  or  malice,  assert.  For  that 
philosopher,  of  all  the  thinkers  of  his  day,  believed 
in  God  and  in  the  divinity  of  Jesus  His  Son,  and 
could  never  descend  to  these  foul  and  filthy  depths. 
He  never  soiled  his  pen  in  the  putrescence  of  false- 
hood and  incendiarism.  The  author  of  this  blasphe- 
mous and  pernicious  Pamphlet,  therefore,  in  trying  to 
father  his  infidelity,  his  sedition,  and  his  lies,  on  Car- 
lyle, is  doubly  guilty  of  a  most  heinous  crime.  And 
we  suspect,  we  know,  and  for  the  welfare  of  the  com- 
munity we  hope  to  be  able  soon  to  point  out  openly, 
who  and  where  this  vile  one  is.  Yes,  only  an  atheist 
and  anarchist  is  capable  of  such  villainous  mendacity, 
such  unutterable  wickedness  and  treachery.  Now, 
we  would  especially  call  upon  our  readers  in  Baalbek 
[152] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

to  be  watchful  and  vigilant,  for  among  them  is  one, 
recently  come  back  from  America,  who  harbours  un- 
der his  bushy  hair  the  atheism  and  anarchy  of  deca- 
dent Europe,  etc,  etc' 

"  And  this  is  followed  by  secret  orders  from  their 
Head  Office  to  the  Superior  of  their  Branch  in  Zahleh, 
to  go  on  with  the  work  hinted  in  the  article  afore- 
said. Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  I  make  this  state- 
ment in  jaundice  or  malice.  For  the  man  who  was 
instigated  to  do  this  foul  work  subsequently  sold  the 
secret.  And  the  Kaimkam,  my  friend,  when  speak- 
ing to  me  of  the  matter,  referred  to  the  article  in 
question,  and  told  me  that  Khalid  was  denounced  to 
the  Government  by  the  Jesuits  as  an  anarchist.  '  And 
lest  I  be  compelled,'  he  continued,  '  to  execute  such 
orders  in  his  case  as  I  might  receive  any  day,  I  advise 
you  to  spirit  him  away  at  once.'  " 

But  though  the  Jesuits  have  succeeded  in  kicking 
Khalid  out  of  his  home,  they  did  not  succeed,  thanks 
to  Shakib,  in  sending  him  to  the  Bosphorus.  Mean- 
while, they  sit  quiet,  hatching  another  egg. 


[153] 


CHAPTER  VI 

FLOUNCES  AND  RUFFLES 

"^JOW,  that  there  is  a  lull  in  the  machinations  of 
Jesuitry,  we  shall  turn  a  page  or  two  in  Shakib's 
account  of  the  courting  of  Khalid.  And  apparently 
everything  is  propitious.  The  fates,  at  least,  in  the 
beginning,  are  not  unkind.  For  the  feud  between 
Khalid's  father  and  uncle  shall  now  help  to  forward 
Khalid's  love-affair.  Indeed,  the  father  of  Najma, 
to  spite  his  brother,  opens  to  the  banished  nephew  his 
door  and  blinks  at  the  spooning  which  follows.  And 
such  an  interminable  yarn  our  Scribe  spins  out  about 
it,  that  Khalid  and  Najma  do  seem  the  silliest 
lackadaisical  spoonies  under  the  sun.  But  what  we 
have  evolved  from  the  narration  might  have  for  our 
readers  some  curious  alien  phase  of  interest. 

Here  then  are  a  few  beads  from  Shakib's  romantic 
string.  When  Najma  cooks  ?nojadderah  for  her 
father,  he  tells  us,  she  never  fails  to  come  to  the  booth 
of  pine  boughs  with  a  platter  of  it.  And  this  to 
Khalid  was  very  manna.  For  never,  while  supping 
on  this  single  dish,  would  he  dream  of  the  mensal 
and  kitchen  luxuries  of  the  Hermitage  in  Bronx  Park. 
In  fact,  he  never  envied  the  pork-eating  Americans, 
the  beef-eating  English,  or  the  polyphagic  French. 
"  Here  is  a  dish  of  lentils  fit  for  the  gods,"  he  would 
say.     .     .     . 

[154] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

When  Najma  goes  to  the  spring  for  water,  Khalid 
chancing  to  meet  her,  takes  the  jar  from  her  shoulder, 
saying,  "  Return  thou  home ;  I  will  bring  thee 
water."  And  straightway  to  the  spring  hies  he, 
where  the  women  there  gathered  'fill  his  ears  with 
tittering,  questioning  tattle  as  he  is  filling  his  jar.  "  I 
wish  I  were  Najma,"  says  one,  as  he  passes  by,  the 
jar  of  water  on  his  shoulder.  "  Would  you  cement 
his  brain,  if  you  were?"  puts  in  another.  And  thus 
would  they  gibe  and  joke  every  time  Khalid  came  to 
the  spring  with  Najma's  jar.     .     . 

One  day  he  comes  to  his  uncle's  house  and  finds 
his  betrothed  ribboning  and  beading  some  new  lin- 
gerie for  her  rich  neighbour's  daughter.  He  sits 
down  and  helps  her  in  the  work,  writing  meanwhile, 
between  the  acts,  an  alphabetic  ideology  on  Art  and 
Life.  But  as  they  are  beading  the  vests  and  skirts 
and  other  articles  of  richly  laced  linen  underwear, 
Najma  holds  up  one  of  these  and  naTvely  asks,  "  Am 
I  not  to  have  some  such,  ya  habibi  (O  my  Love)  ?" 
And  Khalid,  affecting  like  bucolic  innocence,  replies, 
"What  do  we  need  them  for,  my  heart?"  With 
which  counter-question   Najma  is  silenced,  convinced. 

Finally,  to  show  to  what  degree  of  ecstasy  they  had 
soared  without  searing  their  wings  or  losing  a  single 
feather  thereof,  the  following  deserves  mention.  In 
the  dusk  one  day,  Khalid  visits  Najma  and  finds  her 
oiling  and  lighting  the  lamp.  As  she  beholds  him  un- 
der the  door-lintel,  the  lamp  falls  from  her  hands,  the 
kerosene  blazes  on  the  floor,  and  the  straw  mat  takes 
fire.  They  do  not  heed  this  —  they  do  not  see  it  — 
[155] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

they  are  on  the  wings  of  an  ecstatic  embrace.  And 
the  father,  chancing  to  arrive  in  the  nicb  of  time,  with 
a  curse  and  a  cuff,  saves  them  and  his  house  from  the 
conflagration. 

Aside  from  these  curious  and  not  insignificant  in- 
stances, these  radiations  of  a  giddy  hidden  flame  of 
heart-fire,  this  melting  gum  of  spooning  on  the  bark 
of  the  tree  of  love,  we  turn  to  a  scene  in  the  Temple 
of  Venus  which  unfolds  our  future  plans  —  our 
hopes  and  dreams.  But  we  feel  that  the  Reader  is 
beginning  to  hanker  for  a  few  pieces  of  description  of 
Najma's  charms.  Gentle  Reader,  this  Work  is 
neither  a  Novel,  nor  a  Passport.  And  we  are  exceed- 
ing sorry  we  can  not  tell  you  anything  about  the 
colour  and  size  of  Najma's  eyes;  the  shape  and  curves 
of  her  brows  and  lips;  the  tints  and  shades  in  her 
cheeks;  and  the  exact  length  of  her  figure  and  hair. 
Shakib  leaves  us  in  the  dark  about  these  essentials, 
and  we  must  needs  likewise  leave  you.  Our  Scribe 
thinks  he  has  said  everything  when  he  speaks  of  her 
as  a  huri.  But  this  paradisal  title  among  our  Arabic 
writers  and  verse-makers  is  become  worse  than  the 
Sultan's  Medjidi  decorations.  It  Is  bestowed  alike  on 
every  drab  and  trollop  as  on  the  very  few  who  really 
deserve  it.  Let  us  rank  it,  therefore,  with  the 
Medjidi  decorations  and  pass  on. 

But  Khalid,  who  has  seen  enough  of  the  fair,  would 
not  be  attracted  to  Najma,  enchanted  by  her,  if  she 
were  not  endowed  with  such  of  the  celestial  treasures 
as  rank  above  the  visible  lines  of  beauty.  Our  Scribe 
speaks  of  the  "  purity  and  naivete  of  her  soul  as 
[156] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

purest  sources  of  felicity  and  inspiration."  Indeed,  if 
she  were  not  constant  in  love,  she  would  not  have 
spurned  the  many  opportunities  in  the  absence  of 
Khalid;  and  had  she  not  a  fine  discerning  sense  of 
real  worth,  she  would  not  have  surrendered  herself  to 
her  poor  ostracised  cousin;  and  if  she  were  not  intui- 
tively, preternaturally  wise,  she  would  not  marry  an 
enemy  of  the  Jesuits,  a  bearer  withal  of  infiltrated 
lungs  and  a  shrunken  windpipe.  *'  There  is  a  great 
advantage  in  having  a  sickly  husband,"  she  once  said 
to  Shakib,  "  it  lessons  a  woman  in  the  heavenly  vir- 
tues of  our  Virgin  Mother,  in  patient  endurance  and 
pity,  in  charity,  magnanimity,  and  pure  love."  What, 
with  these  sublimities  of  character,  need  we  know  of 
her  visible  charms,  or  lack  of  them?  She  might  de- 
serve the  title  Shakib  bestows  upon  her;  she  might  be 
a  real  huri,  for  all  we  know?  In  that  event,  the  out- 
ward charms  correspond,  and  Khalid  is  a  lucky  dog 
—  if  some  one  can  keep  the  Jesuits  away. 

This,  then,  is  our  picture  of  Najma,  to  whom  he  is 
now  relating,  in  the  Temple  of  Venus,  of  the  dangers 
he  had  passed  and  the  felicities  of  the  beduin  life  he 
has  in  view.  It  is  evening.  The  moon  struggles 
through  the  poplars  to  light  the  Temple  for  them,  and 
the  ambrosial  breeze  caresses  their  cheeks. 

"  No,"  says  Khalid ;  "  we  can  not  live  here,  O  my 
Heart,  after  we  are  formally  married.  The  curse  in 
my  breast  I  must  not  let  you  share,  and  only  when  I 
am  rid  of  it  am  I  actually  your  husband.  By  the  life 
of  this  blessed  night,  by  the  light  of  these  stars,  I  am 
inalterably  resolved  on  this,  and  I  shall  abide  by  my 
[157] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALI  D 

resolution.  We  must  leave  Baalbek  as  soon  as  the 
religious  formalities  are  done.  And  I  wish  your 
father  would  have  them  performed  under  his  roof. 
That  is  as  good  as  going  to  Church  to  be  the  central 
figures  of  the  mummery  of  priests.  But  be  this  as 
You  will.  Whether  in  Church  or  at  home,  whether 
by  your  father  or  by  gibbering  Levites  the  ceremony 
is  performed,  we  must  hie  us  to  the  desert  after  it  is 
done.  I  shall  hire  the  camels  and  prepare  the  neces- 
sary set-out  for  the  wayfare  a  day  or  two  ahead.  No, 
I  must  not  be  a  burden  to  you,  my  Heart.  I  must  be 
able  to  work  for  you  as  for  myself.  And  Allah 
alone,  through  the  ministration  of  his  great  Handmaid 
Nature,  can  cure  me  and  enable  me  to  share  with  you 
the  joys  of  life.  No,  not  before  I  am  cured,  can  I 
give  you  my  whole  self,  can  I  call  myself  your  hus- 
band. Into  the  desert,  therefore,  to  some  oasis  in  its 
very  heart,  we  shall  ride,  and  there  crouch  our  camels 
and  establish  ourselves  as  husbandmen.  I  shall  even 
build  you  a  little  home  like  your  own.  And  you  will 
be  to  me  an  aura  of  health,  which  I  shall  breathe  with 
the  desert  air,  and  the  evening  breeze.  Yes,  our  love 
shall  dwell  in  a  palace  of  health,  not  in  a  hovel  of 
disease.  Meanwhile,  we  shall  buy  with  what  money 
I  have  a  little  patch  of  ground  which  we  shall  culti- 
vate together.  And  we  shall  own  cattle  and  drink 
camel  milk.  And  we  shall  doze  in  the  afternoon  in 
the  cool  shade  of  the  palms,  and  in  the  evening,  wrapt 
in  our  cloaks,  we'll  sleep  on  the  sands  under  the  liv- 
ing stars.  Yes,  and  Najma  shall  be  the  harbinger 
of  dawn  to  Khalid.  —  Out  on  that  little  farm  in  the 
[158] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

oasis  of  our  desert,  far  from  the  world  and  the  sancti- 
fied abominations  of  the  world,  we  shall  live  near  to 
Allah  a  life  of  purest  joy,  of  true  happiness.  We 
shall  never  worry  about  the  hopes  of  to-morrow  and 
the  gone  blessings  of  yesterday.  We  shall  not,  while 
labouring,  dream  of  rest,  nor  shall  we  give  a  thought 
to  our  tasks  while  drinking  of  the  cup  of  repose:  each 
hour  shall  be  to  us  an  epitome  of  eternity.  The  trials 
and  troubles  of  each  day  shall  go  with  the  setting  sun, 
never  to  rise  with  him  again.  But  I  am  unkind  to 
speak  of  this.  For  your  glances  banish  care,  and  we 
shall  ever  be  together.  Ay,  my  Heart,  and  when  I 
take  up  the  lute  in  the  evening,  you'll  sing  mulayiah 
to  me,  and  the  stars  above  us  shall  dance,  and  the 
desert  breeze  shall  house  us  in  its  whispers  of 
love.     .     .     ." 

And  thus  interminably,  while  Najma,  understand- 
ing little  of  all  this,  sits  beside  him  on  a  fallen  column 
in  the  Temple  and  punctuates  his  words  with  assent- 
ing exclamations,  with  long  eighs  of  joy  and  wonder. 
"  But  we  are  not  going  to  live  in  the  desert  all  the 
time,  are  we?  "  she  asks. 

"  No,  my  Heart.  When  I  am  cured  of  my  illness 
we  shall  return  to  Baalbek,  if  you  like." 

"  Eigh,  good.  Now,  I  want  to  say  —  no.  I 
shame  to  speak  about  such  matters." 

"Speak,  ya  Gazalty  (O  my  Doe  or  Dawn  or 
both)  ;  your  words  are  like  the  scented  breeze,  like 
the  ethereal  moon  rays,  which  enter  into  this  Temple 
without  permission.  Speak,  and  light  up  this  ruined 
Temple  of  thine." 

[159] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

"How  sweet  are  Your  words,  but  really  I 
can  not  understand  them.  They  are  like  the  sweet- 
meats my  father  brought  with  him  once  from  Da- 
mascus. One  eats  and  exclaims,  'How  delicious!' 
But  one  never  knows  how  they  are  made,  and  what 
they  are  made  of.  I  wish  I  could  speak  like  you, 
ya  habibi.  I  would  not  shame  to  say  then  what  I 
want." 

"  Say  what  you  wish.  My  heart  Is  open,  and  your 
words  are  silvery  moonbeams." 

"  Do  not  blame  me  then.  I  am  so  simple,  you 
know,  so  foolish.  And  I  would  like  to  know  if  you 
are  going  to  Church  on  our  wedding  day  in  the 
clothes  you  have  on  now." 

"  Not  if  you  object  to  them,  my  Heart." 

"  Eigh,  good !  And  must  I  come  in  my  ordi- 
nary Sunday  dress?  It  is  so  plain;  it  has  not  a  single 
ruffle  to  it." 

"  And  what  are  ruffles  for?  " 

"  I  never  saw  a  bride  in  a  plain  gown ;  they  all 
have  ruffles  and  flounces  to  them.  And  when  I  look 
at  your  lovely  hair  —  O  let  people  say  what  they 
like !  A  gown  without  ruffles  is  ugly.  —  So,  you  will 
buy  me  a  sky-blue  silk  dress,  ya  habibi  and  a  pink  one, 
too,  with  plenty  of  ruffles  on  them?     Will  you  not?  " 

"  Yes,  my  Heart,  you  shall  have  what  you  desire. 
But  in  the  desert  you  can  not  wear  these  dresses. 
The  Arabs  will  laugh  at  you.  For  the  women  there 
wear  only  plain  muslin  dipped  in  indigo." 

"  Then,  I  will  have  but  one  dress  of  sky-blue  silk 
for  the  wedding." 

[i6o] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

"  Certainly,  my  Heart.  And  the  ruffles  shall  be 
as  many  and  as  long  as  you  desire  them," 

And  while  the  many-ruffled  sky-blue  dress  is  being 
made,  Khalid,  inspired  by  Najma's  remarks  on  his  hair, 
rhapsodises  on  flounces  and  ruffles.  Of  this  striking 
piece  of  fantasy,  in  which  are  scintillations  of  the  great 
Truth,  we  note  the  following: 

"  What  can  j^ou  do  without  your  flounces  ?  How 
can  you  live  without  your  ruffles?  Ay,  how  can  you, 
without  them,  think,  speak,  or  work?  How  can  you 
eat,  drink,  walk,  sleep,  pray,  worship,  moralise,  sen- 
timentalise, or  love,  without  them?  Are  you  not 
ruffled  and  flounced  when  you  first  see  the  light, 
ruffled  and  flounced  when  you  last  see  the  darkness? 
The  cradle  and  the  tomb,  are  they  not  the  first  and 
last  ruffles  of  Man?  And  between  them  what  a 
panoramic  display  of  flounces!  What  clean  and  at- 
tractive visible  Edges  of  unclean  invisible  common 
Skirts!  Look  at  j^our  huge  elaborate  monuments, 
your  fancy  sepulchers,  what  are  they  but  the 
ruffles  of  your  triumphs  and  defeats?  The  marble 
flounces,  these,  of  your  cemeteries,  your  Pantheons  and 
Westminster  Abbeys.  And  what  are  your  belfries 
and  spires  and  chimes,  your  altars  and  reredoses  and 
such  like,  but  the  sanctified  flounces  of  your  churches. 
No,  these  are  not  wholly  adventitious  sanctities;  not 
empty,  superfluous  growths.  They  are  incorporated 
into  Life  by  Time,  and  they  grow  in  importance  as  our 
/Esthetics  become  more  inutile,  as  our  Religions  begin 
to  exude  gum  and  pitch  for  commerce,  instead  of  bear- 
ing fruits  of  Faith  and  Love  and  Magnanimity. 
[i6i] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

"  The  first  church  was  the  forest ;  the  first  dome,  the 
welkin;  the  first  altar,  the  sun.  But  that  was,  when 
man  went  forth  in  native  buff,  brother  to  the  lion, 
not  the  ox,  without  ruffles  and  without  faith.  His 
spirit,  in  the  course  of  time,  was  born;  it  grew  and 
developed  zenithward  and  nadirward,  as  the  cycles 
rolled  on.  And  in  spiritual  pride,  and  pride  of  power 
and  wealth  as  well,  it  took  to  ruffling  and  flouncing 
to  such  an  extent  that  at  certain  epochs  it  dis- 
appeared, dwindled  into  nothingness,  and  only  the 
appendages  remained.  These  were  significant  append- 
ages, to  be  sure;  not  altogether  adscititious.  Ruffles 
these,  indeed,  endowed,  as  it  were,  with  life,  and 
growing  on  the  dead  Spirit,  as  the  grass  on  the  grave. 

•"  And  is  it  not  noteworthy  that  our  life  terrene  at 
certain  epochs  seems  to  be  made  up  wholly  of  these? 
That  as  the  great  Pine  falls,  the  noxious  weeds,  the 
brambles  and  thorny  bushes  around  it,  grow  quicker, 
lustier,  luxuriating  on  the  vital  stores  in  the  earth 
that  were  its  own  —  is  not  this  striking  and  perplex- 
ing, my  rational  friends?  Surely,  Man  is  neither  the 
featherless  biped  of  the  Greek  Philosopher,  nor  the 
tool-using  animal  of  the  Sage  of  Chelsea.  For  ani- 
mals, too,  have  their  tools,  and  man,  in  his  visible 
flounces,  has  feathers  enough  to  make  even  a  peacock 
gape.  Both  my  Philosophers  have  hit  wide  of  the 
mark  this  time.  And  Man,  to  my  way  of  thinking,  is 
a  flounce-wearing  Spirit.  Indeed,  Hounces  alone,  the 
invisible  ones  in  particular,  distinguish  us  from  the 
beasts.  For  like  ourselves  they  have  their  fashions  In 
clothes;  their  peculiar  speech;  their  own  hidden 
[162] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

means  of  intellection,  and,  to  some  extent,  of  imagina- 
tion: but  flounces  they  have  not,  they  know  not. 
These  are  luxuries,  which  Man  alone  enjoys. 

"  Ah,  Man, —  thou  son  and  slave  of  Allah,  accord- 
ing to  my  Oriental  Prophets  of  Heaven ;  thou  exalted, 
apotheosised  ape,  according  to  my  Occidental  Prophets 
of  Science;  —  how  much  thou  canst  suffer,  how  much 
thou  canst  endure,  under  what  pressure  and  in  what 
Juhannam  depths  thou  canst  live;  but  thy  flounces 
thou  canst  not  dispense  with  for  a  day,  nor  for  a  single 
one-twelfth  part  of  a  day.  Even  in  thy  suffering  and 
pain,  the  agonised  spirit  is  wrapped,  bandaged, 
swathed  in  ruffles.  It  is  assuaged  with  the  flounces 
of  thy  lady's  caresses,  and  the  scalloped  intonations  of 
her  soft  and  soothing  voice.  It  is  humbugged  into 
health  by  the  malodorous  flounces  of  the  apothecary 
and  the  medicinal  ruffles  of  the  doctor. 

"  Ay,  we  live  in  a  phantasmagoric,  cycloramic  econ- 
omy of  flounces  and  ruffles.  The  human  Spirit  shirks 
nudity  as  it  shirks  pain.  Even  your  modern  preacher 
of  the  Simple  Life  is  at  best  suggesting  the  moderate 
use  of  ruffles.  .  .  .  Indeed,  we  can  suffer  any- 
thing, everything,  but  the  naked  and  ugly  reality. 
Alas,  have  I  not  listened  for  years  to  what  I  mistook 
to  be  the  strong,  pure  voice  of  the  naked  Truth  ?  And 
have  I  not  discovered,  to  my  astonishment,  that  the 
supposed  scientific  Nudity  is  but  an  indurated  thick 
Crust  under  which  the  Lie  lies  hidden.  Why  strip 
Man  of  his  fancy  appendages,  his  adventitious  sancti- 
ties, if  you  are  going  to  give  him  instead  only  a  few 
yards  of  shoddy?  No,  I  tell  you;  this  can  not  be  done. 
[163] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

Your  brambles  and  thorn  hedges  will  continue  to  grow 
and  luxuriate,  will  even  shut  from  your  view  the  Tem- 
ple in  the  Grove,  until  the  great  Pine  rises  again  to 
stunt,  and  ultimately  extirpate,  them. 

"  Behold,  meanwhile,  how  the  world  parades  in  ruf- 
fles before  us.  What  a  bewildering  phantasmagoria 
this:  a  very  Dress  Ball  of  the  human  race.  See  them 
pass:  the  Pope  of  Christendom,  in  his  three  hats  and 
heavy  trailing  gowns,  blessing  the  air  of  heaven;  the 
priest,  in  his  alb  and  chasuble,  dispensing  of  the  bless- 
ings of  the  Pope ;  the  judge,  in  his  wig  and  bombazine, 
endeavouring  to  reconcile  divine  justice  with  the  law's 
mundane  majesty;  the  college  doctor,  in  cap  and  gown, 
anointing  the  young  princes  of  knowledge ;  the  buffoon, 
in  his  cap  and  bells,  dancing  to  the  god  of  laughter; 
mylady  of  the  pink-tea  circle,  in  her  hufifing,  puffing 
gasoline-car,  fleeing  the  monster  of  ennui;  the  bride 
and  bridegroom  at  the  altar  or  before  the  mayor  put- 
ting on  their  already  heavy-ruffled  garments  the  sacred 
ruffle  of  law  or  religion ;  the  babe  brought  to  church  by 
his  mother  and  kindred  to  have  the  priest-tailor  sew  on 
his  new  garment  the  ruffle  of  baptism;  the  soldier  in 
his  gaudy  uniform ;  the  king  in  his  ermine  with  a  crown 
and  sceptre  appended;  the  Nabob  of  Ind  in  his  gor- 
geous and  multi-colored  robes;  and  the  Papuan  with 
horns  In  his  nostrils  and  rings  in  his  ears:  see  them  all 
pass. 

"  And  wilt  thou  still  add  to  the  bewildering  variety 

of  the  pageant?     Or  wilt  have  another  of  the  higher 

things  of  the  mind?     Lo,  the  artist  this,  wearing  his 

ruffles  of  hair  over  his  shoulders ;  and  here,  too,  is  the 

[164] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

man  of  the  sombrero  and  red  flannel,  which  are  the 
latest  flounces  of  a  certain  set  of  New  World  poets. 
Directly  behind  them  is  Dame  Religion  with  her  heavy 
ruflBed  robes,  her  beribboned  and  belaced  bodices,  her 
ornaments  and  sacred  gewgaws.  And  billah,  she  has 
stuffings  and  paddings,  too.  And  false  teeth  and  foul 
breath !  Never  mind.  Pass  on,  and  let  her  pass.  But 
tarry  thou  a  moment  here.  Behold  this  pyrotechnic 
display,  these  buntings  and  flags;  hear  thou  this  music 
and  these  shouts  and  cheers;  on  yonder  stump  is  an 
orator  dispensing  to  his  fellow  citizens  spread-eagle 
rhetoric  as  empty  as  yonder  drum:  these  are  the  elab- 
orate and  attractive  ruffles  of  politics.  And  among 
the  crowd  are  genial  and  honest  citizens  who  have  their 
own  way  of  ruffling  your  temper  with  their  coarse 
flounces  of  linsey-woolsey  freedom.  Wilt  thou  have 
more?  " 

Decidedly  not,  we  reply.  For  how  can  w^e  even 
keep  company  with  Khalid,  who  has  become  such  a 
maniac  on  flounces?  And  was  this  fantastic,  phan- 
tasmagoric rhapsody  all  inspired  by  Najma's  simple 
remark  on  his  hair?     Fruitful  is  thy  word,  O  woman! 

But  being  so  far  away  now  from  the  Hermitage  in 
the  Bronx,  what  has  the  "  cherry  in  the  cocktail  "  and 
"the  olive  in  the  oyster  patty"  to  do  with  all  this? 
Howbeit,  the  following  deserves  a  place  as  the  tail- 
flounce  of  his  Fantasy. 

"  Your  superman  and  superwoman,"  saj'S  he,  with 
philosophic    calm,    "  may     go    Adam-and-Eve  like    if 
they  choose.     But  can  they,  even  in  that  chaste  and 
[165] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

splendid  nudity,  dispense  with  ruffles  and  flounces? 
Pray,  tell  me,  did  not  our  first  parents  spoon  and 
sentimentalise  in  the  Paradise,  before  the  Serpent 
appeared?  And  would  they  not  often  whisper  unto 
each  other,  'Ah,  Adam,  ah.  Eve!  sighing  like- 
wise for  sweeter  things?  And  what  about  those  fatal 
Apples,  those  two  sour  fruits  of  their  Love  ?  —  I  tell 
thee  every  new-born  babe  is  the  magnificent  flesh- 
flounce  of  a  shivering,  trembling,  nudity.  And  I 
Khalid,  what  am  I  but  the  visible  ruffle  of  an  invisi- 
ble skirt?  Verily,  I  am;  and  thou,  too,  my  Brother. 
Yea,  and  this  aquaterrestrial  globe  and  these  sidereal 
heavens  are  the  divine  flounces  of  the  Vesture  of 
Allah." 


[i66] 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  HOWDAJ  OF  FALSEHOOD 

*'tJUMANITY  is  so  feeble  in  mind,"  says  Renan, 
"  that  the  purest  thing  has  need  of  the  co-oper- 
ation of  some  impure  agent."  And  this,  we  think, 
is  the  gist  of  Khalid's  rhapsody  on  flounces  and 
ruffles.  But  how  is  he  to  reconcile  the  fact  with 
the  truth  in  his  case?  For  a  single  sanctified  ruffle 
—  a  line  of  type  in  the  canon  law  —  is  likely  to  up- 
set all  his  plans.  Yes,  a  priest  in  alb  and  chasuble 
not  only  can  dispense  with  the  blessings  of  his  Pope, 
but  —  and  here  is  the  rub  —  he  can  also  withhold 
such  blessings  from  Khalid.  And  now,  do  what  he 
may,  say  what  he  might,  he  must  either  revise  his 
creed,  or  behave,  at  least,  like  a  Christian. 

Everything  is  ready,  you  say?  The  sky-blue, 
many-ruffled  wedding  gown;  the  set-out  for  the  way- 
fare;  the  camel  and  donkeys;  the  little  stock  of  books; 
the  coffee  utensils ;  the  lentils  and  sweet  oil ;  —  all 
ready?  Very  well;  but  you  can  not  set  forth  to- 
morrow, nor  three  weeks  from  to-morrow.  Indeed, 
before  the  priest  can  give  you  his  blessings  —  and 
what  at  this  juncture  can  you  do  without  them?  — 
the  dispensations  of  the  ban  must  be  performed.  In 
other  words,  your  case  must  now  be  laid  before  the 
community.  Every  Sunday,  for  three  such  to  come, 
[167] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

the  intended  marriage  of  Khalid  to  Najma  will  be 
published  in  the  Church,  and  whoso  hath  any  objec- 
tion to  make  can  come  forth  and  make  it.  Moreover, 
there  is  that  little  knot  of  consanguinity  to  be  consid- 
ered. And  your  priest  is  good  enough  to  come  and 
explain  this  to  you.  Understand  him  well.  "  An 
aim  of  a  few  gold  pieces,"  says  he,  "  will  remove  the 
obstacle;  the  unlawfulness  of  your  marriage  resulting 
from  consanguinity  will  cease  on  payment  of  five  hun- 
dred piasters." 

All  of  which  startles  Khalid,  stupefies  him.  He  had 
not,  heretofore,  thought  of  such  a  matter.  Indeed,  he 
was  totally  ignorant  of  these  forms,  these  prohibitions 
and  exemptions  of  the  Church.  And  the  father  of 
Najma,  though  assenting,  remarks  nevertheless  that 
the  alms  demanded  are  much.  "  Why,"  exclaims 
Khalid,  "  I  can  build  a  house  for  five  hundred 
piasters." 

The  priest  sits  down  cross-legged  on  the  divan, 
lights  the  cigarette  which  Najma  had  offered  with 
the  coffee,  and  tries  to  explain. 

"  And  where  have  you  this,  O  Reverend,  about 
consanguinity,  prohibition,  and  alms!"  Khalid  asks. 

"  Why,  my  child,  in  the  Canons  of  our  Church, 
Catholic  and  Apostolic.  Every  one  knows  that  a 
marriage  between  cousins  can  not  be  effected,  with- 
out the  sanction  of  the  Bishop." 

"  But  can  we  not  obtain  this  sanction  without  pay- 
ing for  it  ?  " 

"  You    are    not    paying    for    it,     my    child ;    you 
are  only  contributing  some  alms  to  the  Church." 
[i68] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

"You  come  to  us,  therefore,  as  a  beggar,  not  as 
a  spiritual  father  and  guide." 

"  That  is  not  good  speaking.  You  misunderstand 
my  purpose." 

"  And  pray,  tell  me,  what  is  the  purpose  of  pro- 
hibiting a  marriage  between  cousins;  what  chief  good 
is  there  in  such  a  ban  ?  " 

"  Much  good  for  the  community." 

"  But  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  community. 
I'm  going  to  live  with  my  wife  in  the  desert." 

"  The  good  of  your  souls  is  chiefly  concerned." 

"  Ah,  the  good  of  our  souls!  " 

*'  And  there  are  other  reasons  which  can  not  be 
freely  spoken  of  here." 

"  You  mean  the  restriction  and  prohibition  of 
sexual  knowledge  between  relatives.  That  is  very 
well.  But  let  us  return  to  what  concerns  us 
properly:  the  good  of  my  soul,  and  the  spiritual  well- 
being  of  the  community, —  what  becomes  of  these, 
when  I  pay  the  prescribed  alms  and  obtain  the  sanc- 
tion of  the  Bishop?  " 

"  No  harm  then  can  come  to  them  —  they'll  be 
secure." 

"Secure,  you  say?  Are  they  not  hazarded,  sold 
by  your  Church  for  five  hundred  piasters?  If  my 
marriage  to  my  cousin  be  wrong,  unlawful,  your 
Bishop  in  sanctioning  same  is  guilty  of  perpetuating 
this  wrong,  this  unlawfulness,  is  he  not?" 

"  But  what  the  Church  binds  only  the  Church  can 
loosen." 

"  And  what  is  the  use  of  binding,  O  Reverend 
[169] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

Father,  when  a  little  sum  of  money  can  loosen  any- 
thing you  bind?  It  seems  to  me  that  these  prohibi- 
tions of  the  Church  are  only  made  for  the  purpose  of 
collecting  alms.  In  other  words,  you  bind  for  the 
sake  of  loosening,  when  a  good  bait  is  on  the  hook,  do 
you  not?  Pardon,  O  my  Reverend  Father,  pardon.  I 
can  not,  to  save  my  soul  and  yours,  reconcile  these 
contradictions.  For  if  Mother  Church  be  certain 
that  my  marriage  to  my  cousin  is  contrary  to  the  Law 
of  God,  is  destructive  of  my  spiritual  well-being,  then 
let  her  by  all  means  prohibit  it.  Let  her  restrain  me, 
compel  me  to  obey.  Ay,  and  the  police  ought  to  in- 
terfere in  case  of  disobedience.  In  her  behalf,  in 
my  behalf,  in  the  behalf  of  my  cousin's  soul  and  mine, 
the  police  ought  to  do  the  will  of  God,  if  the  Church 
knows  what  it  is,  and  is  certain  and  honest  about 
it.  Compel  me  to  stop,  I  conjure  you,  if  you  know 
I  am  going  in  the  way  of  damnation.  O  my  Father, 
what  sort  of  a  mother  is  she  who  would  sell  two  of 
her  children  to  the  devil  for  a  few  hundred  piasters? 
No,  billah!  no.  What  is  unlawful  by  virtue  of  the 
Divine  Law  the  wealth  of  all  the  Trust-Kings  of 
America  can  not  make  lawful.  And  what  is  so 
by  virtue  of  your  Canon  Law  concerns  not  me.  You 
may  angle,  you  and  your  Church,  as  long  as  you 
please  in  the  murky,  muddy  waters  of  Bind-and- 
Loosen,  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  you."     .    . 

But  the  priests,  O  Khalid,  have  yet  a  little  to  do 
with   you.     Such    arguments   about   the   Divine   Law 
and  the  Canon  Law,  about  alms  and  spiritual  beggars, 
[170] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

might  cut  the  Gordian  knot  with  your  uncle,  but  — 
and  whether  it  be  good  or  bad  English,  we  say  it^ — 
they  cut  no  ice  with  the  Church.  Yes,  Mother 
Church,  under  whose  wings  you  and  your  cousin 
were  born  and  bred,  and  under  whose  wings  you  and 
your  cousin  would  be  married,  can  not  take  off  for  the 
sweet  sake  of  your  black  eyes  the  ruffles  and  flounces 
of  twenty  centuries.  Think  well  on  it,  you  who  have 
so  extravagantly  and  not  unwisely  delivered  yourself 
on  flounces  and  ruffles.  But  to  think,  when  in  love, 
were,  indeed,  disastrous.  O  Love,  Love,  what 
Camels  of  wisdom  thou  canst  force  to  pass  through 
the  needle's  eye!  What  miracles  divine  are  thine! 
Khalid  himself  says  that  to  be  truly,  deeply,  piously 
in  love,  one  must  needs  hate  himself.  How  true, 
how  inexorably  true!  For  would  he  be  always  in- 
viting trouble  and  courting  affliction,  would  he  be 
always  bucking  against  the  dead  wall  of  a  Democracy 
or  a  Church,  if  he  did  not  sincerely  hate  himself  —  if 
he  were  not  religiously,  fanatically  in  love  —  in  love 
with  Najma,  if  not  with  Truth? 

Now,  on  the  following  Sunday,  instead  of  publish- 
ing the  intended  marriage  of  Khalid  and  Najma,  the 
parish  priest  places  a  ban  upon  it.  And  in  this,  ye 
people  of  Baalbek,  is  food  enough  for  tattle,  and 
cause  enough  for  persecution.  Potent  are  the  ruffles 
of  the  Church!  But  why,  we  can  almost  hear  the 
anxious  Reader  asking,  if  the  camels  are  ready,  w^hy 
the  deuce  don't  they  get  on  and  get  them  gone?  But 
did  we  not  say  once  that  Khalid  is  slow,  even  slower 
than  the  law  itself?  Nevertheless,  if  this  were  a 
[171] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

Novel,  an  elopement  would  be  in  order,  but  we  must 
repeat,  it  is  not.  We  are  faithful  transcribers  of  the 
truth  as  we  find  it  set  down  in  Shakib's  Histoire 
Int'une. 

True,  Khalid  did  ask  Najma  to  throw  with  him 
the  handful  of  dust,  to  steal  out  of  Baalbek  and  get 
married  on  the  way,  say  in  Damascus.  But  poor 
Najma  goes  over  to  his  m.other  instead,  and  mingling 
their  tears  and  prayers,  they  beseech  the  Virgin  to 
enlighten  the  soul  and  mind  of  Khalid.  "  Yes,  wt 
must  be  married  here,  before  we  go  to  the  desert," 
says  she,  "  for  think,  O  my  mother,  how  far  away  we 
shall  be  from  the  world  and  the  Church  if  anything 
happens  to  us." 

And  they  would  have  succeeded,  the  mother  and 
cousin  of  Khalid,  in  persuading  the  parish  priest  to 
accept  from  them  the  prescribed  alms  and  perform  the 
wedding  ceremony,  had  not  the  Jesuits,  in  the  inter- 
est of  the  Faith  and  the  Church,  been  dogging 
Khalid  still.  For  if  they  have  failed  in  sending  him 
to  the  Bosphorus,  they  will  succeed  in  sending  him 
elsewhither.     And   observe   how   this  is   done. 

After  communicating  with  the  Papal  Legate  In  Mt. 
Lebanon  about  that  fatal  Latter  Day  Pamphlet  of 
Thomas  Carlyle,  the  Adjutant-General,  or  Adjutant- 
Bird,  stalks  up  there  one  night  in  person  and  lays 
before  the  Rt.  Rev.  Mgr.  his  devil's  brief  in  Khalid's 
case.  It  has  already  been  explained  that  this  Pamphlet 
was  fathered  on  Khalid  by  the  Jesuits.  For  if  they  can 
not  punish  the  Voice  which  is  still  pursuing  them  — 
and  in  their  heart  of  hearts  they  must  have  recognised 
[172] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

its  thunder,  even  in  a  Translation  —  they  will  make 
the  man  smart  for  it  who  first  mentioned  Carlyle  in 
this  connection. 

"  And  besides  this  pernicious  booklet,"  says  the 
Adjutant-Bird,  "  the  young  man's  heretical  opinions 
are  notorious.  He  was  banished  from  home  on  that 
account.  And  now,  after  corrupting  and  deluding 
his  cousin,  he  is  going  to  marry  her  despite  the  ban  of 
the  Church.  Something,  Monseigneur,  ought  to  be 
done,  and  quickly,  to  protect  the  community  against 
the  poison  of  this  wretch."  And  Monseigneur,  nod- 
ding his  accord,  orders  his  Secretary  to  write  a  note 
to  the  Patriarch,  enclosing  :he  aforesaid  devil's  brief, 
and  showing  the  propriety,  nay,  the  necessity  of  excom- 
municating Khalid  the  Baalbekian.  The  Adjutant- 
Bird,  with  the  Legate's  letter  in  his  pocket,  skips  over 
to  the  Patriarch  on  the  other  hill-top  below,  and  after 
a  brief  interview  —  our  dear  good  Ancient  of  the 
Maronites  must  willy-nilly  obey  Rome  —  the  fate  of 
Khalid  the  Baalbekian  is  sealed. 

Indeed,  the  upshot  of  these  Jesuitic  machinations  is 
this:  on  the  very  day  when  Khalid's  mother  and  cousin 
are  pleading  before  the  parish  priest  for  justice,  for 
mercy, —  offering  the  prescribed  alms,  beseeching  that 
the  ban  be  revoked,  the  marriage  solemnised, —  a 
messenger  from  the  Bishop  of  the  Diocese  enters, 
kisses  his  Reverence's  hand,  and  delivers  an  imposing 
envelope.  The  priest  unseals  it,  unfolds  the  heavy 
foolscap  sheet  therein,  reads  it  with  a  knitting  of  the 
brow,  a  shaking  of  the  beard,  and,  clapping  one  hand 
upon  the  other,  tells  the  poor  pleaders  to  go  home. 
[173] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

"  It  Is  all  finished.  There  is  no  more  hope  for  you 
and  your  cousin."  And  he  shows  the  Patriarchal 
Bull,   and   explains. 

Whereupon,  Najma  and  Khalid's  mother  go  out 
weeping,  wailing,  beating  their  breasts  and  cheeks, 
calling  upon  Allah  to  witness  their  sorrow  and  the  out- 
rageous tyranny  of  the  priests. 

"What  has  my  son  done  to  be  excommunicated? 
Hear  It,  ^e  people,  hear  it.  And  be  just  to  me  and 
my  son.  What  has  he  done  to  deserve  the  anathema 
of  the  Church?  What  has  he  done?"  And  thus 
frantic,  mad,  she  runs  through  the  main  street  of  the 
town,  making  wild  gestures  and  clamours, —  publish- 
ing, as  It  were,  the  Patriarchal  Bull,  before  It  was 
read  by  the  priest  on  the  following  day,  and  tacked 
on  the  door  of  the  Church. 

Of  this  Bull,  tricked  with  the  stock  phrases  of  the 
Church  of  the  Middle  Ages,  such  as  "  anathema  be 
he,"  or  *'  banned  be  he,"  who  speaks  with,  deals  with, 
and  so  forth,  we  have  a  copy  before  us.  But  our 
readers  will  not  pardon  us,  we  fear,  if  further  space 
and  consideration  be  here  given  to  its  contents.  Suf- 
fice It  to  say,  however,  that  Khalid  comes  to  church 
on  that  fatal  day,  takes  the  foolscap  sheet  down  from 
the  door,  and,  going  with  It  to  the  town-square,  burns 
It  there  before  the  multitudes. 

And  It  came  to  pass,  when  the  Bull  Is  burned  In  the 
town-square  of  Baalbek,  In  the  last  year  of  the  reign 
of  Abd'ul-Hamid,  some  among  the  multitudes  shout 
loud  shouts  of  joy,  and  some  cast  stones. 

Then,  foul,  vehement  speaking  falleth  between  the 
[174] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

friends  and  the  enemies  of  him  who  wrought  evil  in 
the  sight  of  the  Lord; 

And  every  one  thereupon  brandisheth  a  stick  or 
taketh  up  a  stone  and  the  battle  ensueth. 

Now,  the  mighty  troops  of  the  Sultan  of  the  Otto- 
mans come  forth  like  the  Yaman  wind  and  stand  in 
the  town-square  like  rocks; 

And  the  battle  rageth  still,  and  the  troops  who  are 
come  forth  to  part  the  fighting  multitudes,  having 
gorged  themselves  at  the  last  meal,  can  not  as  much 
as  speak  their  part: 

And  It  came  to  pass,  when  the  clubs  and  spades  are 
veiled  and  the  battle  subsideth  of  Itself,  the  good 
people  return  to  their  respective  callings  and  trades; 

But  the  perverse  recalcitrants  which  remain  —  and 
Khalid  the  Baalbekian  Is  among  them  —  are  taken 
by  the  aforesaid  overfed  troops  to  the  City  Hall  and 
thence  to  the  velayet  prison  in  Damascus. 

And  here  endeth  our  stichometrics  of  the  Battle  of 
the  Bull. 

Now,  Shakib  may  wear  out  his  shoes  this  time,  his 
tongue,  too,  and  his  purse,  but  to  no  purpose.  Be- 
hold, your  friend  the  kaimkam  Is  gloomy  and  Impas- 
sive as  a  camel;  what  can  you  do?  Whisper  in  his 
ear?  The  Padres  have  done  that  before  you.  Slip 
a  purse  into  his  pocket?  They  have  done  that,  too, 
and  overdone  It  long  since.  Yes,  the  City  Hall  of 
every  city  In  the  Empire  Is  an  epitome  of  Ylldiz 
Kiosk.  And  your  kaimkams,  and  valis,  and  viziers, 
have  all  been  taught  In  the  same  Text-Book,  at  the 
same  Political  School,  and  by  the  same  Professor. 
[175] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

Let  Khalid  rest,  therefore  and  ponder  these  matters  in 
silence.  For  in  the  City  Hall  and  during  the  month 
he  passes  in  the  prison  of  Damascus,  we  are  told,  he 
does  not  utter  a  word.  His  partisans  in  prison  ask  to 
be  taught  his  creed,  and  among  these  are  some  Mo- 
hammadans:  *' We'll  burn  the  priests  and  their 
church  yet  and  follow  you.  By  our  Prophet  Moham- 
mad we  will  ..."  Khalid  makes  no  reply. 
Even  Shakib,  when  he  comes  to  visit  him,  finds  him 
dumb  as  a  stone,  slain  by  adversity  and  disease. 
Nothing  can  be  done  now.  The  giant  excommuni- 
cated, incommunicative  soul,  struggling  in  a  prison  of 
sore  flesh,  we  must  leave,  alas,  with  his  friends  and 
partisans  to  pass  his  thirty  days  and  nights  in  the 
second  prison  of  stone. 

Now,  let  us  return  to  the  Jesuits,  who,  having 
worsted  Khalid,  or  the  Devil  in  Khalid,  as  they  char- 
itably put  it,  will  also  endeavour  to  do  somewhat  in  the 
interest  of  his  intended  bride.  For  the  Padres,  in  addi- 
tion to  their  many  crafts  and  trades,  are  matrimonial 
brokers  of  honourable  repute.  And  in  their  meddling 
and  making,  their  baiting  and  mating,  they  are  as  ser- 
viceable as  the  Column  Personal  of  an  American  news- 
paper. Whoso  is  matrimonially  disposed  shall  whis- 
per his  mind  at  the  Confessional  or  drop  his  advertise- 
ment in  the  pocket  of  the  visiting  Columns  of  their 
Bride-Dealer,  and  he  shall  prosper.  She  as  well  as 
he  shall  prosper. 

Now,  Father  Farouche  is  commissioned  to  come  all 
the  way  from  Zahleh  to  visit  the  brother  of  Abu-Khalid 
their  porter,  and  bespeak  him  In  the  interest  of  his 
[176] 


IN     THE    TEMPLE 

daughter.  All  their  faculties  of  persuasion  shall  be 
exerted  in  behalf  of  Najma.  She  must  be  saved  at 
any  cost.  Hence  they  volunteer  their  services.  And 
w^hile  Khalid  is  lingering  in  prison  at  Damascus,  they 
avail  themselves  of  the  opportunity  to  further  the  suit 
of  their  pickle-herring  candidate  for  Najma's  love. 

The  Reverend  Farouche,  therefore,  holds  a  secret 
conference  with  her  father. 

"  No,"  says  he,  "  God  would  never  have  forgiven  you 
for  giving  your  daughter  to  one  utterly  destitute  of 
morality,  religion,  money,  and  health.  But  praise  Al- 
lah !  the  Church  has  come  to  her  rescue.  She  shall  be 
saved,  wrested  from  the  hands  of  Iblis.  Yes,  Holy 
Church,  through  us,  will  guide  her  to  find  a  god-fear- 
ing life-companion ;  one  worthy  of  her  charms,  her 
virtues,  her  fine  qualities  of  heart  and  mind.  The 
young  man  we  recommend  is  rich,  respected  in  the 
community ;  is  an  official  of  the  Government  with  a 
third-class  Medjidi  decoration  and  the  title  of  Bey; 
and  is  free  from  all  diseases.  Moreover,  he  is  a  good 
Catholic,  Consider  these  advantages.  A  relation 
this,  which  no  father  would  reject,  if  he  loves  his 
daughter  and  is  solicitous  of  her  future  well-being. 
Speak  to  her,  therefore,  and  let  us  know  soon  your 
mind." 

And  our  Scribe,  in  relating  of  this,  loses  his  temper. 
— "  An  Official  of  the  Government,  a  Bey  with  a  third- 
class  Medjidi  decoration  from  the  Sultan!  As  if 
Officialdom  could  not  boast  of  a  single  scoundrel  — 
as  if  any  rogue  in  the  Empire,  with  a  few  gold  coins 
in  his  purse,  were  not  eligible  to  the  Hamidian  deco- 
[177] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

rations!  And  a  third-class  decoration!  Why,  I  have 
it  on  good  authority  that  these  Medjidi  Orders  were 
given  to  a  certain  Patriarch  in  a  bushel  to  distribute 
among  his  minions.     ..." 

But  to  our  subject.  Abu-Najma  does  not  look 
upon  it  in  this  light.  A  decorated  and  titled  son-in- 
law  were  a  great  honour  devoutly  to  be  wished.  And 
some  days  after  the  first  conference,  the  Padre 
Farouche  comes  again,  bringing  along  his  Excellency 
the  third-class  Medjidi  Bey;  but  Najma,  as  they  enter 
and  salaam,  goes  out  on  the  terrace  roof  to  weep. 
The  third  time  the  third-class  Medjidi  Dodo  comes 
alone.  And  Najma,  as  soon  as  she  catches  a  glimpse 
of  him,  takes  up  her  earthen  jar  and  hies  her  to  the 
spring. 

"  O  the  hinny!  I'll  rope  noose  her  (hang  her)  to- 
night," murmurs  the  father.  But  here  is  his  Excel- 
lency with  his  Sultan's  green  button  in  his  lapel. 
Abu-Najma  bows  low,  rubs  his  hands  well,  offers  a 
large  cushion,  brings  a  masnad  (leaning  pillow),  and 
blubbers  out  many  unnecessary  apologies. 

"This  honour  is  great,  your  Excellency  —  over- 
look our  shortcomings  —  our  beit  (one  room  house) 
can  not  contain  our  shame  —  it  is  not  becoming  your 
Excellency's  high  rank  —  overlook  —  you  have  con- 
descended to  honour  us,  condescend  too  to  be  indulgent. 
—  My  daughter?  yes,  presently.  She  is  gone  to 
church,  to  mass,  but  she'll  return  soon." 

But   Najma   is  long   gone;    returns   not;   and   the 
third-class   Dodo   will   call   again   to-morrow.     Now, 
Abu-Najma  brings  out  his  rope,  soaps  it  well,  nooses 
[178] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

and  suspends  it  from  the  rafter  in  the  ceih'ng.  And 
when  his  daughter  returns  from  the  spring,  he  takes 
her  by  the  arm,  shows  her  the  rope,  and  tells  her 
laconically  to  choose  between  his  Excellency  and  this. 
Poor  Najma  has  not  the  courage  to  die,  and  so  soon. 
Her  cousin  Khalid  is  in  prison,  is  excommunicated  — 
what  can  she  do?  Run  away?  The  Church  will 
follow  her  —  punish  her.  There's  something  satanic 
in  Khalid  —  the  Church  said  so  —  the  Church  knows. 
Najma  rolls  these  things  in  her  mind,  looks  at  her 
father  beseechingly.  Her  father  points  to  the  noose. 
Najma  falls  to  weeping.  The  noose  serves  well  its 
purpose. 

For  hereafter,  when  the  Dodo  comes  decorated, 
SHE  has  to  offer  him  the  cushion,  bring  him  the 
masnad,  make  for  him  the  cofiFee.  And  eventually,  as 
the  visits  accumulate,  she  goes  with  him  to  the  dress- 
maker in  Beirut.  The  bridal  gown  shall  be  of  the 
conventional  silk  this  time;  for  his  Excellency  is 
travelled,  and  knows  and  reverences  the  fashion.  But 
why  prolong  these  painful  details? 

"  Allah,  in  the  mysterious  working  of  his  Provi- 
dence," says  Shakib,  "preordained  it  thus:  Khalid, 
having  served  his  turn  in  prison,  Najma  begins  her 
own;  for  a  few  days  after  he  was  set  free,  she  was 
placed  in  bonds  forged  for  her  by  the  Jesuits.  Now, 
when  Khalid  returned  from  Damascus,  he  came 
straightway  to  me  and  asked  that  we  go  to  see 
Najma  and  try  to  prevail  upon  her,  to  persuade  her 
to  go  with  him,  to  run  away.  They  would  leave  on 
the  night-train  to  Hama  this  time,  and  thence  set 
[179] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

forth  towards  Palmyra.  I  myself  did  not  know  what 
had  happened,  and  so  I  approved  of  his  plan.  But 
alas!  as  we  were  coming  down  the  main  Street  to 
Najma's  house,  we  heard  the  sound  of  tomtoms  in  the 
distance  and  the  shrill  ulluluing  of  women.  We  con- 
tinued apace  until  we  reached  the  by-way  through 
which  we  had  to  pass,  and  lo,  we  find  it  choked  by 
the  zeffah  (wedding  procession))  of  none  but  she  and 
the  third-class  Medjidi.     ..." 

But  we'll  no  more  of  this!  Too  tragic,  too  much 
like  fiction  It  sounds,  that  here  abruptly  we  must  end 
this  Chapter. 


[i8o] 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  KAABA  OF  SOLITUDE 

rjISAPPOINTED,  distraught,  diseased,— worsted 
by  the  Jesuits,  excommunicated,  crossed  in  love, 
—  but  with  an  eternal  glint  of  sunshine  in 
his  breast  to  open  and  light  up  new  paths  before  him, 
Klialid,  after  the  fatal  episode,  makes  away  from 
Baalbek.  He  suddenly  disappears.  But  where  he 
lays  his  staff,  where  he  spends  his  months  of  solitude, 
neither  Shakib  nor  our  old  friend  the  sandomancer  can 
say.  Somewhither  he  still  is,  indeed;  for  though  he 
fell  in  a  swoon  as  he  saw  Najma  on  her  caparisoned 
palfrey  and  the  decorated  Excellency  coming  up  along 
side  of  her,  he  was  revived  soon  after  and  persuaded 
to  return  home.  But  on  the  following  morning,  our 
Scribe  tells  us,  coming  up  to  the  booth,  he  finds 
neither  Khalld  there,  nor  any  of  his  few  worldly  be- 
longings. We,  however,  have  formed  a  theorj^  of  our 
own,  based  on  certain  of  his  writings  in  the  K.  L,  MS., 
about  his  mysterious  levitation ;  and  we  believe 
he  is  now  somewhither  whittling  arrows  for  a  coming 
combat.  In  the  Lebanon  mountains  perhaps.  But 
we  must  not  dog  him  like  the  Jesuits.  Rather  let  us 
reverence  the  privacy  of  man,  the  sacredness  of  his 
religious  retreat.  For  no  matter  where  he  is  in  the 
flesh,  we  are  metaphysically  certain  of  his  existence. 
[i8i] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

And  instead  of  filling  up  this  Chapter  with  the  bitter 
bickerings  of  life  and  the  wickedness  and  machination 
of  those  in  power,  let  us  consecrate  it  to  the  divine 
peace  and  beauty  of  Nature.  Of  a  number  of  Chap- 
ters in  the  Book  of  Khalid  on  this  subject,  we  choose 
the  one  entitled,  My  Native  Terraces,  or  Spring  in 
Syria,  symbolising  the  natural  succession  to  Khalid's 
Winter  of  destiny.  In  it  are  signal  manifestations 
of  the  triumph  of  the  soul  over  the  diseases  and 
adversities  and  sorrows  of  mortal  life.  Indeed,  here 
is  an  example  of  faith  and  power  and  love  which  we 
reckon  sublime. 

"  The  inhabitants  of  my  terraces  and  terrace  walls," 
we  translate,  "  dressed  in  their  Sunday  best,  are  in 
the  doorways  lounging  or  peeping  idly  through  their 
windows.  And  why  not?  It  is  Spring,  and  to  these 
delicate,  sweet  little  creatures.  Spring  is  the  one  Sun- 
day of  the  year.  Have  they  not  hugged  the  damp, 
dark  earth  long  enough?  Hidden  from  the  wrath  of 
Winter,  have  they  not  squatted  patiently  round  the 
primitive,  smokeless  fire  of  the  mystic  depths?  And 
now,  the  rain  having  partly  extinguished  the  inner, 
hidden  flame,  they  come  out  to  bask  in  the  sun,  and 
drink  deeply  of  the  ambrosial  air.  They  come,  almost 
slain  with  thirst,  to  the  Mother  Fountain.  They 
come  out  to  worship  at  the  shrine  of  the  sweet-souled, 
God-absorbed  Rabia  of  Attar.  In  their  bright,  glow- 
ing faces  what  a  delectable  message  from  the  under 
world  of  romance  and  enchantment!  Their  lips  are 
red  with  the  kisses  of  love,  in  whose  alembics,  in- 
[182] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

tangible,  unseen,  the  dark  and  damp  of  the  earth 
are  translated  into  warmth  and  colour  and  shade. 
Ay,  these  dear  little  children,  unfolding  their  soft 
green  scrolls  and  reading  aloud  such  odes  on  Modesty 
and  Beauty,  are  as  inspiring  as  the  star-crowned  night. 
And  every  chink  in  my  terrace  walls  seems  to  breathe 
a  message  of  sweetness  and  light  and  love. 

"  Know  you  not  the  anecdote  about  the  enchanting 
Goddess  Rabia,  as  related  by  Attar  in  his  Biographies 
of  Sufi  Mystics  and  Saints?  Here  it  is.  Rabia  was 
asked  if  she  hated  the  devil,  and  she  replied,  '  No.' 
Asked  again  why,  she  said,  '  Being  absorbed  in  love, 
I  have  no  time  to  hate.'  Now,  all  the  inhabitants  of 
my  terraces  and  fields  seem  to  echo  this  sublime  senti- 
ment of  their  Goddess.  The  air  and  sunshine,  nay, 
the  very  rocks  are  imbued  with  it.  See,  how  the 
fissures  in  the  boulders  yonder  seem  to  sympathise 
with  the  gaps  in  the  terrace  walls:  the  cyclamen  leaves 
in  the  one  are  salaaming  the  cyclamen  flowers  in  the 
other.  O,  these  terraces  would  have  delighted  the 
heart  of  the  American  naturalist  Thoreau.  He  could 
not  have  desired  stone  walls  with  more  gaps  in  them. 
But  mind  you,  these  are  not  dark,  ugly,  hollow,  hope- 
less chinks.  Behind  every  one  of  them  lurks  a  mys- 
tery. Far  back  in  the  niches  I  can  see  the  busts  of  the 
poets  who  wrote  the  poems  which  these  beautiful  wild 
flowers  are  reading  to  me.  Yes,  the  authors  are  dead, 
and  what  I  behold  now  are  the  flowers  of  their 
amours.  These  are  the  offspring  of  their  embraces, 
the  crystallised  dew  of  their  love.  Yes,  this  one  single, 
simple  act  of  love  brings  forth  an  infinite  variety  of 
[183] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

flowers  to  celebrate  the  death  of  the  finite  outward 
shape  and  the  eternal  essence  of  life  perennial.  In 
complete  surrender  lies  the  divineness  of  things 
eternal.  This  is  the  key-note  of  the  Oriental  mystic 
poets.  And  I  incline  to  the  belief  that  they  of  all 
bards  have  sung  best  the  song  of  love.  In  rambling 
through  the  fields  with  these  beautiful  children  of  the 
terraces,  I  know  not  what  draws  me  to  Al-Fared,  the 
one  erotic-mystic  poet  of  Arabia,  whose  interminable 
rhymes  have  a  perennial  charm.  Perhaps  such  lines 
as  these,  — 

'All  that  is  fair  is  fairer  when  she  rises. 

Ail  that  is  sweet  is  sweeter  when  she  is  here; 
And  every  form  of  beauty  she  surprises 

With  one  brief  word  she  whispers  in  its  ear: 

*  Thy  wondrous  charms,  O  let  them  not  deceive  thee; 
They  are  but  borrowed   from  her  for  a  while; 
Thine  outward   guise  and   loveliness   would  grieve  thee, 
If  in  thine  inmost  soul  she  did  not  smile. 

'  All  colours,  forms,  into  each  other  merging, 
Are  woven  on  her  Loom  of  Unity; 
For  she  alone  is  One   in   All  diverging. 
And  she  alone  is  absolute  and  free.' 

"  Now,  I  will  bring  you  to  a  scene  most  curiously 
suggestive.  Behold  that  little  knot  of  daisies  press- 
ing around  the  alone  anemone  beneath  the  spreading 
leaves  of  the  colocasia.  Here  is  a  rout  at  the  Coun- 
tess Casiacole's,  and  these  are  the  debutantes  crowding 
around  the  Celebrity  of  the  day.  But  would  they  do 
so  if  they  were  sensible  of  their  own  worth,  if  they 
[184] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

knew  that  their  idol,  flaunting  the  crimson  crown  of 
popularity,  had  no  more,  and  perhaps  less,  of  the  pure 
essence  of  life  than  any  of  them?  But  let  Celebrity 
stand  there  and  enjoy  her  hour;  to-morrow  the 
Ploughman  will  come. 

"  The  sage,  with  its  spikes  of  greyish  blue  flowers, 
its  fibrous,  velvety  leaves,  its  strong,  pungent  perfume, 
which  is  not  squandered  or  repressed,  is  the  stoic  of 
my  native  terraces.  It  responds  generously  to  the  per- 
sonal touch,  and  serves  the  Lebanonese,  rich  and  poor 
alike,  with  a  little  luxury.  Ay,  who  of  us,  wander- 
ing on  foreign  strands,  does  not  remember  the  warm 
foot-bath,  perfumed  with  sage  leaves,  his  mother  used 
to  give  him  before  going  to  bed?  Our  dear 
mothers!"  —  And  here,  Khalid  goes  in  raptures  and 
tears  about  his  sorry  experience  in  Baalbek  and  the 
anguish  and  sorrow  of  his  poor  mother.  "  But  while 
I  stand,"  he  continues,  "  let  me  be  like  the  sage,  a  live- 
oak  among  shrubs,  indifferent  as  the  oak  or  pine  to 
the  winds  and  storms.  And  as  the  sun  is  setting,  find 
you  no  solace  in  the  thought,  O  Khalid,  that  some 
angel  herb-gatherer  will  preserve  the  perfume  in  your 
leaves,  to  refresh  therewith  in  other  worlds  your  dear 
poor  mother? 

"My  native  terraces  are  rich  with  faith  and  love, 
luxuriant  with  the  life  divine  and  the  wondrous  sym- 
bols thereof.  And  the  grass  here  is  not  cut  and 
trimmed  as  in  the  artificial  gardens  and  the  cold  dull 
lawns  of  city  folk,  whose  love  for  Nature  is  either 
an  experiment,  a  sport,  a  business,  or  a  fad.  '  A 
[185] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

dilettantism  in  Nature  is  barren  and  unworthy,'  says 
Emerson.  But  of  all  the  lovers  of  Nature,  the  chil- 
dren are  the  least  dilettanteish.  And  every  day  here 
I  see  a  proof  of  this.  Behold  them  wading  to  their 
knees  in  that  lusty  grass,  hunting  the  classic  lotus 
with  which  to  deck  their  olive  branches  for  the  high 
mass  and  ceremony  of  Palm  Sunday.  But  alas,  my 
lusty  grass  and  my  beautiful  wild  flowers  do  not  en- 
joy the  morning  of  Spring.  Here,  the  ploughman 
comes,  carrying  his  long  plough  and  goad  on  his 
shoulder,  and  with  him  his  wife  lugging  the  yoke  and 
his  boy  leading  the  oxen.  Alas,  the  sun  shall  not  set  on 
these  bright,  glowing,  green  terraces,  whose  walls  are 
very  ramparts  of  flowers.  There,  the  boy  with  his 
scythe  is  paving  the  way  for  his  father's  plough;  the 
grass  is  mowed  and  given  to  the  oxen  as  a  bribe  to 
do  the  ugly  business.  And  all  for  the  sake  of  the  ugly 
mulberries,  which  are  cultivated  for  the  ugly  silk- 
worms. Come,  let  us  to  the  heath,  where  the  hiss  of 
the  scythe  and  the  *  ho-back '  and  '  oho  '  of  the  plough- 
man are  not  heard. 

"  But  let  us  swing  from  the  road.  Come,  the 
hedges  of  Nature  are  not  as  impassable  as  the  hedges 
of  man.  Through  these  scrub  oaks  and  wild  pears, 
between  this  tangle  of  thickets,  over  the  clematis  and 
blackberry  bush, —  and  here  we  are  under  the  pines, 
the  lofty  and  majestic  pines.  How  different  are  these 
natural  hedges,  growing  in  wild  disorder,  from  the 
ugly  cactus  fences  with  which  my  neighbours  choose  to 
shut  in  their  homes,  and  even  their  souls.  But  my  busi- 
ness now  is  not  with  them.  There  are  my  friends 
[i86] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

the  children  again  gathering  the  pine-needles  of  last 
summer  for  lighting  the  fire  of  the  silk-worm  nursery. 
And  down  that  narrow  foot-path,  meandering  around 
the  boulders  and  disappearing  among  the  thickets,  see 
what  big  loads  of  brushwood  are  moving  towards  us. 
Beneath  them  my  swarthy  and  hardy  peasants  are 
plodding  up  the  hill  asweat  and  athirst.  When  I  first 
descended  to  the  wadi,  one  such  load  of  brushwood 
emerging  suddenly  from  behind  a  cVifi  surprised  and 
frightened  me.  But  soon  I  was  reminded  of  the  mov- 
ing forest  in  Macbeth.  The  man  bowed  beneath  the 
load  was  hidden  from  view,  and  the  boy  directly  be- 
hind was  sweating  under  a  load  as  big  as  that  of  his 
father.  ' Awafy!'  (Allah  give  you  strength),  I  said, 
greeting  them.  '  And  increase  of  health  to  you,'  they 
replied.  I  then  asked  the  boy  how  far  down  do 
they  have  to  go  for  their  brushwood,  and  laying  down 
his  load  on  a  stone  to  rest,  he  points  below,  saying, 
'  Here,  near  the  river.'  But  this  '  Here,  near  the 
river '  is  more  than  four  hours'  walk  from  the  vil- 
lage.— Allah  preserve  you  in  your  strength,  my 
Brothers.  And  they  pass  along,  plodding  slowly  un- 
der their  overshadowing  burdens.  A  hard-hearted 
Naturalist,  who  goes  so  deep  into  Nature  as  to  be 
far  from  the  vital  core  even  as  the  dilettante,  might 
not  have  any  sympathy  to  throw  away  on  such  occa- 
sions. But  of  what  good  is  the  love  of  Nature  that 
consists  only  in  classification  and  dissection?  I  carry 
no  note-book  with  me  when  I  go  down  the  wadi  or 
out  into  the  fields.  I  am  content  if  I  bring  back  a 
few  impressions  of  some  reassuring  instance  of  faith, 
[187] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

a  few  pictures,  and  an  armful  of  wild  flowers  and 
odoriferous  shrubs.  Let  the  learned  manual  maker 
concern  himself  with  the  facts;  he  is  content  with 
jotting  down  in  his  note-book  the  names  and  lineage 
of  every  insect  and  every  herb. 

"  But  Man  ?     What  is  he  to  these  scientific  Nat- 
uralists?    If  they  meet  a  stranger  on  the  road,  they 
pass  him  by,  their  eyes  intent  on  the  breviary  of  Na- 
ture, somewhat  after  the  fashion  of  my  priests,  who 
are    fond    of    praying    in    the    open-air    at    sundown. 
No,  I  do  not  have  to  prove  to  my  Brothers  that  my 
love  of  Nature  is  but  second  to  my  love  of  life.     I 
am  interested  in  my  fellow  men  as  in  my  fellow  trees 
and     flowers.     'The     beauty    of     Nature,'     Emerson 
again,   '  must  always  seem  unreal  and  mocking  until 
the  landscape  has  human  figures,  that  are  as  good  as 
itself.'     And   'tis  well,  if  they  are  but  half  as  good. 
To  me,  the  discovery  of  a  woodman  in  the  wadi  were 
as  pleasing  as  the  discovery  of  a  woodchuck  or  a  wood- 
swallow  or  a  woodbine.     For  in  the  soul  of  the  wood- 
man is  a  song,  I  muse,  as  sweet  as  the  rhythmic  strains 
of  the  goldfinch,  if  it  could  be  evoked.     But  the  soul 
plodding  up   the  hill  under  its   heavy  overshadowing 
burden,  what  breath  has  it  left  for  song?     The  man 
bowed  beneath  the  load,  the  soul  bowed  beneath  the 
man!     Alas,    I   seem   to   behold   but   moving   burdens 
in  my  country.     And  yet,  my  swarthy  and  shrunken, 
but   firm-fibred    people   plod    along,    content,    patient, 
meek;  and   when   they  reach   the  summit  of  the   hill 
with    their   crushing   burdens,    they   still    have   breath 
enough  to  troll  a  favourite  ditty  or  serenade  the  night. 
[i88] 


IN     THE     TEMPLE 

*  I   come   to  thee,   O   Night, 
I'm  at  thy  feet; 
I  can  not  see,  O  Night, 
But  thy  breath  is  sweet.' 

"  And  so  is  the  breath  of  the  pines.  Here,  the  air 
is  surcharged  with  perfume.  In  it  floats  the  aro- 
matic soul  of  many  a  flower.  But  the  perfume-soul 
of  the  pines  seems  to  tower  over  all  others,  just  as 
its  material  shape  lifts  its  artistic  head  over  the  oak, 
the  cercis,  and  the  terabinth.  And  though  tall  and 
stately,  my  native  pines  are  not  forbidding.  They  are 
so  pruned  that  the  snags  serve  as  a  most  convenient 
ladder.  Such  was  my  pleasure  mounting  for  the 
green  cones,  the  salted  pinons  of  which  are  delicious. 
But  I  confess  they  seem  to  stick  in  the  stomach  as  the 
pitch  of  the  cones  sticks  on  the  hands.  This,  how- 
ever, though  it  remains  for  days,  works  no  evil ;  but 
the  pinons  in  the  stomach,  and  the  stomach  on  the 
nerves, —  that  is  a  different  question. 

"  The  only  pines  I  have  seen  in  the  United  States; 
are  those  in  front  of  Emerson's  house  in  Concord; 
but  compared  with  my  native  trees,  they  are  scrubby 
and  mean.  These  pine  parasols  under  which  I  lay 
me,  forgiving  and  forgetting,  are  fit  for  the  gods. 
And  although  closely  planted,  they  grow  and  flourish 
without  much  ado.  I  have  seen  spots  not  exceeding 
a  few  hundred  square  feet  holding  over  thirty  trees, 
and  withal  stout  and  lusty  and  towering.  Indeed, 
the  floor  of  the  Tent  seems  too  narrow  at  times  for 
its  crowded  guests;  but  beneath  the  surface  there  is 
room  for  every  root,  and  over  it,  the  sky  is  broad 
enough  for  all. 

[189] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

"  Ah,  the  bewildering  vistas  through  the  variegated 
pillars,  taking  in  a  strip  of  sea  here,  a  mountain  peak 
there,  have  an  air  of  enchantment  from  which  no 
human  formula  can  release  a  pilgrim-soul.  They  re- 
mind me  —  no;  they  can  not  remind  me  of  any- 
thing more  imposing.  But  when  I  was  visiting  the 
great  Mosques  of  Cairo  I  was  reminded  of  them. 
Yes,  the  pine  forests  are  the  great  mosques  of  Nature. 
And  for  art-lovers,  what  perennial  beauty  of  an  an- 
tique art  is  here.  These  majestic  pillars  arched  with 
foliage,  propping  a  light-green  ceiling,  from  which 
cones  hang  in  pairs  and  in  clusters,  and  through  which 
curiously  shaped  clouds  can  be  seen  moving  in  a  ceru- 
lean sky;  and  at  night,  instead  of  the  clouds,  the 
stars  —  the  distant,  twinkling,  white  and  blue  stars 
—  what  to  these  are  the  decorations  in  the  ancient 
mosques?  There,  the  baroques,  the  arabesques,  the 
colourings  gorgeous,  are  dead,  at  least  inanimate;  here, 
they  palpitate  with  life.  The  moving,  swelling,  flam- 
ing, flowing  life  is  mystically  interwoven  in  the  ever- 
green ceiling  and  the  stately  colonnades.  Ay,  even 
the  horizon  yonder,  with  its  planets  and  constella- 
tions rising  and  setting  ever,  is  a  part  of  the  ceiling 
decoration. 

"  Here  in  this  grand  Mosque  of  Nature,  I  read 
my  own  Koran.  I,  Khalid,  a  Beduin  in  the  desert 
of  life,  a  vagabond  on  the  highway  of  thought,  I  come 
to  this  glorious  Mosque,  the  only  place  of  worship 
open  to  me,  to  heal  my  broken  soul  in  the  perfumed 
atmosphere  of  its  celestial  vistas.  The  mihrabs  here 
are  not  in  this  direction  nor  in  that.  But  whereso 
[190] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

one  turns  there  are  niches  in  which  the  living  spirit  of 
Allah  is  ever  present.  Here,  then,  I  prostrate  me 
and  read  a  few^  Chapters  of  MY  Holy  Book.  After 
which  I  resign  myself  to  my  eternal  Mother  and  the 
soft  western  breezes  lull  me  asleep.  Yea,  and  even 
like  my  poor  brother  Moslem  sleeping  on  his  hair- 
mat  in  a  dark  corner  of  his  airy  Mosque,  I  dream  my 
dream  of  contentment  and  resignation  and  love. 

"  See  the  ploughman  strutting  home,  his  goad  in  his 
hand,  his  plough  on  his  shoulder,  as  if  he  had  done 
his  duty.  Allah  be  praised,  the  flowers  In  the  terrace- 
walls  are  secure.  That  is  why,  I  believe,  my 
American  brother  Thoreau  liked  walls  with  many 
gaps  in  them.  The  sweet  wild  daughters  of  Spring 
can  live  therein  their  natural  life  without  being 
molested  by  the  scythe  or  the  plough.  Allah  be 
praised  a  hundred  times  and  one." 


[191] 


CHAPTER  IX 

SIGNS  OF  THE  HERMIT 

ALTHOUGH  we  claim  some  knowledge  of  the 
Lebanon  mountains,  having  landed  there  in  our 
journey  earthward,  and  having  since  then,  our  limbs 
waxing  firm  and  strong,  made  many  a  journey 
through  them,  we  could  not,  after  developing,  through 
many  readings,  Khalid's  spiritual  films,  identify  them 
with  the  vicinage  which  he  made  his  Kaaba.  On 
what  hill,  in  what  wadi,  under  what  pines  did  he 
ruminate  and  extravagate,  we  could  not  from  these 
idealised  pictures  ascertain.  For  a  spiritual  film  is 
other  than  a  photographic  one.  A  poet's  lens  is 
endowed  with  a  seeing  eye,  an  insight,  and  a  faculty 
to  choose  and  compose.  Hence  the  difficulty  in  trac- 
ing the  footsteps  of  Fancy  —  in  locating  Its  cave,  its 
nest,  or  its  Kaaba.  His  pine-mosque  we  could  find 
anywhere,  at  any  altitude;  his  vineyards,  too,  and  his 
glades;  for  our  mountain  scenery,  its  beauty  alternat- 
ing between  the  placid  and  the  rugged  —  the  tame 
terrace  soil  and  the  wild,  forbidding  majesty  —  is  ail- 
where  almost  the  same.  But  where  in  these  rocky 
and  cavernous  recesses  of  the  world  can  we  to-day 
find  the  ancient  Lebanon  troglodyte,  whom  Khalid 
has  seen,  and  visited  in  his  hut,  and  even  talked  with? 
It  is  this  that  forces  us  to  seek  his  diggings,  to  trace, 
if  possible,  his  footsteps. 

[192]: 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

In  the  K.  L.  MS.,  as  we  have  once  remarked  and 
more  than  once  hinted,  we  find  much  that  is  unduly 
inflated,  truly  Oriental;  much  that  is  platitudinous, 
ludicrous,  which  we  have  suppressed.  But  never 
could  we  question  the  Author's  veracity  and  sincerity 
of  purpose.  Whether  he  crawled  like  a  zoophyte, 
soared  like  an  eagle,  or  fought,  like  All,  the  giants 
of  the  lower  world,  he  is  genuine,  and  oft-times 
amusingly  truthful.  But  the  many  questionable  pages 
on  this  curious  subject  of  the  eremite,  what  are  we 
to  do  with  them?  If  they  are  imaginary,  there  is  too 
much  in  this  Book  against  quackery  to  daunt  us. 
And  yet,  if  Khalid  has  found  the  troglodyte,  whom 
we  thought  to  be  an  extinct  species,  he  should  have 
left  us  a  few  legends  about  It. 

We  have  visited  the  ancient  caverns  of  the  Leba- 
non troglodytes  in  the  cliffs  overhanging  the  river 
of  WadI  Kadeesha,  and  found  nothing  there  but 
blind  bats,  and  mosses,  and  dreary  vacuity.  No,  not 
a  vestage  of  the  fossil  Is  there,  not  a  skull,  not  a  shin- 
bone.  We  have  also  inquired  in  the  monasteries  near 
the  Cedars,  and  we  were  frankly  told  that  no  monk 
to-day  fancies  such  a  life.  And  if  he  did,  he  would 
not  give  his  brother  monks  the  trouble  of  carrying 
his  daily  bread  to  a  cave  in  those  forbidden  cliffs. 
And  yet,  Simeon  Stylites,  he  of  the  Pillar,  who  re- 
mained for  thirty  years  perched  on  the  top  of  It,  was 
a  Syrian  shepherd.  But  who  of  his  descendants  to- 
day would  as  much  as  pass  one  night  on  the  top  of 
that  pillar?  Curious  eleemosynary  phases  of  our 
monkish  system,  these  modern  times  reveal. 
[193] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

On  our  way  from  a  journey  to  the  Cedars,  while 
engaged  in  the  present  Work,  we  passed  through  a 
pine  forest,  in  which  were  some  tangled  bushes  of  the 
clematis.  The  muleteer  stops  near  one  of  these  and 
stoops  to  reach  something  he  had  seen  therein.  No 
treasure-trove,  alas,  as  he  supposed ;  but  merely  a 
book  for  which  he  lacerated  his  hands  and  which  he 
cursed  and  handed  to  us,  saying,  "  This  must  be  the 
breviary  of  some  monk." 

No,  it  was  an  English  book,  and  of  American  ori- 
gin, and  of  a  kind  quite  rare  in  America.  Indeed, 
here  were  a  find  and  surprise  as  agreeable  as  Khalid's 
sweetbrier  bush.  Henry  Thoreau's  Week!  What 
a  miracle  of  chance.  Whose  this  mutilated  copy  of 
the  Week,  we  thought?  Who  in  these  mountains, 
having  been  in  America,  took  more  interest  in  the 
Dreamer  of  Walden  Woods  than  in  peddling  and 
trading?  We  walk  our  mule,  looking  about  in  vague, 
restless  surprise,  as  if  seeking  in  the  woods  a  lost  com- 
panion, and  lo,  we  reach  a  monarch  pine  on  which  is 
carved  the  name  of  —  Khalid !  This  book,  then, 
must  be  his;  the  name  on  the  pine  tree  is  surely  his 
own;  we  know  his  hand  as  well  as  his  turn  of  mind. 
But  who  can  say  if  this  be  his  Kaaba,  this  his  pine- 
mosque?  Might  he  not  only  have  passed  through  these 
glades  to  other  parts?  Signs,  indeed,  are  here  of  his 
feet  and  hands,  if  not  of  his  tent-pegs.  And  what 
signifies  his  stay?  No  matter  how  long  he  might 
have  put  up  here,  it  is  but  a  passage,  deeply  consid- 
ered: like  Thoreau's  passage  through  Walden  woods, 
like  Mohammad's  through  the  desert. 
[194] 


IN     THE    TEMPLE 

This  leisure  hour  is  the  nipple  of  the  soul.  And 
fortunate  they  who  are  not  artificially  suckled,  who 
know  this  hour  no  matter  how  brief,  who  get  their 
nipple  at  the  right  time.  If  they  do  not,  no  pabulum 
ever  after,  will  their  indurated  tissues  assimilate. 
Do  you  wonder  why  the  world  is  full  of  crusty  souls? 
and  why  to  them  this  infant  hour,  this  suckling  while, 
is  so  repugnant?  But  we  must  not  intrude  more  of 
such  remarks  about  mankind.  Whether  rightly  suck- 
led or  not,  we  manage  to  live;  but  whether  we  do  so 
marmot-like  or  Maronite-like,  is  not  the  question  here 
to  be  considered.  To  pray  for  your  bread  or  to  bur- 
row in  the  earth  for  it,  is  it  not  the  same  with  most 
people?  Given  a  missionary  with  a  Bible  in  his  hip- 
pocket  or  a  peasant  with  a  load  of  brushwood  on  his 
back  and  the  same  gastric  coefficient,  and  you  will 
have  in  either  case  a  resulting  expansion  for  six  feet 
of  coffin  ground  and  a  fraction  of  Allah's  mercy. 
Our  poor  missionary,  is  it  worth  while  to  cross  the 
seas  for  this?  Marmot-like  or  Maronite-like  —  but 
soft  you  know!  Here  is  our  peasant  with  his  over- 
shadowing load  of  brushwood.  And  there  is  another, 
and  another.  They  are  carrying  fuel  to  the  lime- 
pit  ahead  of  us  yonder.  What  brow-sweat,  what 
time,  what  fire,  what  suffering  and  patient  toil,  the 
lime-washing,  or  mere  liming,  of  our  houses  and  sep- 
ulchres, requires.  That  cone  structure  there,  that  ar- 
tificial volcano,  with  its  crackling,  flaming  bowels  and 
its  fuliginous,  coruscating  crater,  must  our  hardy 
peasants  feed  continually  for  twenty  days  and  nights. 

But  the  book  and  the  name  on  the  pine,  we  would 
[195] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

know  more  of  these  signs,  if  possible.  And  so,  we 
visit  the  labourers  of  the  kiln.  They  are  yodling,  the 
while  they  work,  and  jesting  and  laughing.  The 
stokers,  with  flaming,  swollen  eyes,  their  tawny  com- 
plexion waxing  a  brilliant  bronze,  their  sweat  making 
golden  furrows  therein,  with  their  pikes  and  pitch- 
forks busy,  are  terribly  magnificent  to  behold.  Here 
be  men  who  would  destroy  Bastilles  for  you,  if  it 
were  nominated  in  the  bond.  And  there  is  the  monk- 
foreman  —  the  kiln  is  of  the  mpnastery's  estate  — 
reading  his  breviary  while  the  lime  is  in  making. 
Indeed,  these  sodalities  of  the  Lebanons  are  not  what 
their  vows  and  ascetic  theologies  would  make  them. 
No  lean-jowled,  hungry-looking  devotees,  living  in 
exiguity  and  droning  in  exinanition  their  prayers, — 
not  by  any  means.  Their  flesh-pots  are  not  a  few, 
and  their  table  is  a  marvel  of  ascetism!  And  why 
not,  if  their  fat  estates  —  three-quarter  of  the  lands 
here  Is  held  in  mortmain  by  the  clergy  —  can  yield 
anything,  from  silk  cocoons  to  lime-pits?  They  will 
clothe  you  in  silk  at  least;  they  will  lime-wash  your 
homes  and  sepulchres,  if  they  cannot  lime-wash  any- 
thing else.  Thanks  to  them  so  long  as  they  keep  some 
reminiscence  of  business  in  their  heads  to  keep  the 
Devil  out  of  it. 

The  monk-foreman  Is  reading  with  one  eye  and 
watching  with  the  other.  "  Work,"  cries  he,  "  every 
minute  wasted  is  stolen  from  the  abbey.  And  whoso 
steals,  look  in  the  pit:  Its  fire  Is  nothing  compared 
with  Juhannam."  And  the  argument  serves  its  pur- 
pose. The  labourers  hurry  hither  and  thither,  bring- 
[196] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

ing  brushwood  near;  the  first  stoker  pitches  to  the 
second,  the  second  to  the  third,  and  he  feeds  the  flam- 
ing, smoking,  coruscating  volcano.  "  Yallah! " 
(Keep  ft  up)  exclaims  the  monk-foreman.  "  Burn 
the  devil's  creed,"  cries  one.  "  Burn  hell,"  cries  an- 
other. And  thus  jesting  in  earnest,  mightily  working 
and  enduring,  they  burn  the  mountains  into  lime, 
they  make  the  very  rocks  yield  somewhat. —  Strength 
and  blessings,  brothers. 

After  the  usual  inquiry  of  whence  and  whither,  his 
monkship  offers  the  snuff-box.  "  No  ?  roll  you,  then, 
a  cigarette,"  taking  out  a  plush  pouch  containing  a 
mixture  of  the  choicest  native  roots.  These,  we  were 
told,  are  grown  on  the  monastery's  estate.  We 
speak  of  the  cocoon  products  of  the  season. 

"  Beshrew  the  mulberries!"  exclaims  the  monk. 
**  We  are  turning  all  our  estates  into  fruit  orchards 
and  orangeries.  The  cultivation  of  the  silk-worm 
Is  in  itself  an  abomination.  And  while  its  income 
to-day  is  not  as  much  as  it  was  ten  years  ago,  the  ex- 
penditure has  risen  twofold.  America  is  ruining  our 
agriculture;  and  soon,  I  suppose,  we  have  to  send  to 
China  for  labourers.  Why,  those  who  do  not  emi- 
grate demand  twice  as  much  to-day  for  half  the  work 
they  used  to  do  five  years  ago;  and  those  who  return 
from  America  strut  about  like  country  gentlemen  de- 
ploring the  barrenness  of  their  native  soil." 

And  one  subject  leading  to  another,  for  our  monk 

is  a  glib  talker,  we  come  to   the  cheese-makers,   the 

goatherds.     "  Even    these    honest    rustics,"    says    he, 

"are     becoming     sophisticated      (mafsudin).     Their 

[197] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

cheese  is  no  longer  what  it  was,  nor  is  their  faith. 
For  Civilisation,  passing  by  their  huts  in  some  shape 
or  other,  whispers  in  their  ears  something  about  clev- 
erness and  adulteration.  And  mistaking  the  one  for 
the  other,  they  abstract  the  butter  from  the  milk  and 
leave  the  verdigris  in  the  utensils.  This  lust  of  gain 
is  one  of  the  diseases  which  come  from  Europe  and 
America, —  it  is  a  plague  which  even  the  goatherd 
cannot  escape.  Why,  do  you  know,  wherever  the 
cheese-monger  goes  these  days  ptomaine  poison  is 
certain  to  follow." 

"And  why  does  not  the  Government  interfere?" 
we  ask. 

"  Because  the  Government,"  replies  our  monk  in 
a  dry,  droll  air  and  gesture,  "  does  not  eat  cheese." 

And  the  monks,  we  learned,  do  not  have  to  buy  it. 
For  this,  as  well  as  their  butter,  olive  oil,  and  wine, 
is  made  on  their  own  estates,  under  their  own  super- 
vision. 

"  Yes,"  he  resumes,  placing  his  breviary  in  his 
pocket  and  taking  out  the  snuff-box ;  "  not  long  ago 
one  who  lived  in  these  parts  —  a  young  man  from 
Baalbek  he  was,  and  he  had  his  booth  in  the  pine  forest 
yonder  — •  bought  some  cheese  from  one  of  these  mule- 
teer cheese-mongers,  and  after  he  had  eaten  of  it  fell 
sick.  It  chanced  that  I  was  passing  by  on  my  way 
to  the  abbey,  when  he  was  groaning  and  retching 
beneath  that  pine  tree.  It  was  the  first  time  I  saw 
that  young  man,  and  were  I  not  passing  by  I  know 
not  what  would  have  become  of  him.  I  helped  him 
to  the  abbey,  where  he  was  ministered  to  by  our  phy- 
[198] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

sician,  and  he  remained  with  us  three  days.  He  ate 
of  our  cheese  and  drank  of  our  wine,  and  seemed  to 
like  both  very  much.  And  ever  since,  while  he  was 
here,  he  would  come  to  the  abbey  with  a  basket  or  a 
tray  of  his  own  make  —  he  occupied  himself  in  mak- 
ing wicker-baskets  and  trays  —  and  ask  in  exchange 
some  of  our  cheese  and  olive  oil.  He  was  very  in- 
telligent, this  fellow;  his  eyes  sometimes  were  like 
the  mouth  of  this  pit,  full  of  fire  and  smoke.  But 
he  was  queer.  The  clock  in  him  was  not  wound 
right  —  he  was  always  ahead  or  behind  time,  always 
complaining  that  we  monks  did  not  reckon  time  as  he 
did.  Nevertheless,  I  liked  him  much,  and  often 
would  I  bring  him  some  of  our  cookery.  But  he 
never  accepted  anything  without  giving  something  in 
exchange." 

Unmistakable  signs. 

"And  his  black  turban,"  continues  the  monk, 
"  over  his  long  flowing  hair  made  him  look  like  our 
hermit.  (Strange  coincidence!)  "  On  your  way  here 
have  you  not  stopped  to  visit  the  hermit?  Not  far 
from  the  abbey,  on  your  right  hand  coming  here,  is 
the  Hermitage." 

We  remember  passing  a  pretty  cottage  surrounded 
by  a  vineyard  in  that  rocky  wilderness;  but  who 
would  mistake  that  for  a  troglodyte's  cave?  "And 
this  young  man  from  Baalbek,"  we  ask,  "  how  did 
he  live  in  this  forest?" 

"  Yonder,"    points    the    monk,    "  he    cleared    and 
cleaned  for  himself  a  little  space  which  he  made  his 
workshop.     And    up    in   the   pines   he    constructed    a 
[199] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

platform,  which  he  walled  and  covered  with  boughs. 
And  when  he  was  not  working  or  walking,  he  would 
be  there  among  the  branches,  either  singing  or  asleep. 
I  used  to  envy  him  that  nest  In  the  pines." 

"  And  did  he  ever  go  to  church  ?  " 

"  He  attended  mass  twice  in  our  chapel,  on  Good 
Friday  and  on  Easter  Sunday,  I  think." 

"  And  did  he  visit  the  abbey  often  ?  " 

"  Only  when  he  wanted  cheese  or  olive  oil." 
(Shame,  O  Khalid!)  "But  he  often  repaired  to 
the  Hermitage.  I  went  with  him  once  to  listen  to 
his  conversation  with  the  Hermit.  They  often  dis- 
agreed, but  never  quarrelled.  I  like  that  young  man 
in  spite  of  his  oddities  of  thought,  which  savoured  at 
times  of  infidelity.  But  he  is  honest,  believe  me; 
never  tells  a  lie;  and  in  a  certain  sense  he  is  as  pious 
as  our  Hermit,  I  think.     Roll  another  cigarette." 

"  Thank  you.  And  the  Hermit,  what  is  your 
opinion  of  him?  " 

"Well,  h'm  —  h'm  —  go  visit  him.  A  good  man 
he  is,  but  very  simple.  And  between  us,  he  likes 
money  too  much.  H'm,  h'm,  go  visit  him.  If  I 
were  not  engaged  at  present,  I  would  accompany  you 
thither." 

We  thank  our  good  monk  and  retrace  our  steps 
to  the  Hermitage,  rolling  meanwhile  in  our  mind 
that  awful  remark  about  the  Hermit's  love  of  money. 
Blindness  and  Plague!  even  the  troglodyte  loves  and 
worships  thee,  thou  silver  Demiurge !  We  can  not  be- 
lieve it.  The  grudges  of  monks  against  each  other 
often  reach  darker  and  more  fatal  depths.  Alas,  if 
[200] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

the  faith  of  the  cheese-monger  is  become  adulterated, 
what  shall  we  say  of  the  faith  of  our  monkhood?  If 
the  salt  of  the  earth  —  but  not  to  the  nunnery  nor 
to  the  monkery,  we  go.  Rather  let  us  to  the  Her- 
mitage, Reader,  and  with  an  honest  heart;  in  earnest, 
not  in  sport. 


[201] 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  VINEYARD  IN  THE  KAABA 

npHIS,  then,  is  the  cave  of  our  troglodyte!  Allah 
be  praised,  even  the  hermits  of  the  Lebanon 
mountains,  like  the  prophets  of  America  and  other 
electric-age  species,  are  subject  to  the  laws  of  evolu- 
tion. A  cottage  and  chapel  set  in  a  vineyard,  the  most 
beautiful  we  have  j^et  seen,  looms  up  in  this  rocky 
wilderness  like  an  oasis  in  a  desert.  For  many  miles 
around,  the  vicinage  presents  a  volcanic  aspect,  wild, 
barren,  howlingly  dreary.  At  the  foot  of  Mt.  San- 
neen  in  the  east,  beyond  many  ravines,  are  villages 
and  verdure;  and  from  the  last  terrace  in  the  vine- 
yard one  overlooks  the  deep  chasm  which  can  boast 
of  a  rivulet  in  winter.  But  in  the  summer  its  naked- 
ness is  appalling.  The  sun  turns  its  pocket  inside 
out,  so  to  speak,  exposing  its  boulders,  its  little  wind- 
rows of  sands,  and  its  dry  ditches  full  of  dead  fish 
spawn.  And  the  cold,  rocky  horizon,  rising  so  high 
and  near,  shuts  out  the  sea  and  hides  from  the  Her- 
mit the  glory  of  the  sundown.  But  we  can  behold 
its  effects  on  Mt.  Sanneen,  on  the  clouds  above  us, 
on  the  glass  casements  in  the  villages  far  away.  The 
mountains  in  the  east  are  mantled  with  etherial  lilac 
alternating  with  mauve;  the  clouds  are  touched  with 
purple  and  gold ;  the  casements  in  the  distance  are 
[202] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

scmtlllating  with  mystical  carbuncles:  the  sun  is  set- 
ting in  the  Mediterranean, —  he  is  waving  his  farewell 
to  the  hills. 

We  reach  the  first  gate  of  the  Hermitage;  and  the 
odour  peculiar  to  monks  and  monkeries,  a  mixed 
smell  of  mould  and  incense  and  burning  oil,  greets 
us  as  we  enter  into  a  small  open  space  in  the  centre 
of  which  is  a  Persian  lilac  tree.  To  the  right  is  a 
barbed-wire  fence  shutting  in  the  vine3^ard ;  directly 
opposite  is  the  door  of  the  chapel;  and  near  it  is  a 
wicket  before  which  stands  a  withered  old  woman. 
Against  the  wall  is  a  stone  bench  where  another 
woman  is  seated.  As  we  enter,  we  hear  her,  stand- 
ing at  the  wicket,  talking  to  some  one  behind  the 
scene.  "  Yes,  that  is  the  name  of  my  husband,"  says 
she.  "  Allah  have  mercy  on  his  soul,"  sighs  an  ex- 
iguous voice  within ;  "  pray  for  him,  pray  for  him." 
And  the  woman,  taking  to  weeping,  blubbers  out, 
"Will  thirty  masses  do,  think  5'our  Reverence?" 
"  Yes,  that  will  cheer  his  soul,"  replies  the  oracle. 

The  old  woman  thereupon  enters  the  chapel,  pays 
the  priest  or  serving-monk  therein,  one  hundred  pias- 
ters for  thirty  masses,  and  goes  away  in  tears.  The 
next  woman  rises  to  the  gate.  "  I  am  the  mother 
of — ,"  she  says,  "  Ah,  the  mother  of — ,"  repeats 
the  exiguous  voice.  "How  are  you?  (She  must  be 
an  old  customer.)  How  is  your  husband?  How  are 
your  children?  And  those  In  America,  are  they  well, 
are  they  prosperous?  Yes,  yes,  your  deceased  son. 
Well,  h'm  —  h'm  —  you  must  come  again.  I  can  not 
tell  you  anything  yet.  Come  again  next  week." 
[203] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

And  she,  too,  visits  the  chapel,  counts  out  some  money 
to  the  serving-monk,  and  leaves  the  Hermitage,  dry- 
ing her  tears. 

The  Reader,  who  must  have  recognised  the  squeak- 
ing, snuffling,  exiguous  voice,  knows  not  perhaps  that 
the  Hermit,  in  certain  moments  of  inkhitaf  (abstrac- 
tion, levitation)  has  glimpses  into  the  spirit-world 
and  can  tell  while  in  this  otherworldliness  how  the 
Christian  souls  are  faring,  and  how  many  masses 
those  in  Purgatory  need  before  they  can  rejoin  the 
bosom  of  Father  Abraham.  And  those  who  seek 
consolation  and  guidance  through  his  occult  minis- 
trations are  mostly  women.  But  the  money  collected 
for  masses,  let  it  here  be  said,  as  well  as  the  income 
of  the  vineyard,  the  Hermit  touches  not.  The 
monks  are  the  owners  of  the  occult  establishment, 
and  they  know  better  than  he  what  to  do  with  the 
revenue.  But  how  far  this  ancient  religious  Medium 
can  go  in  the  spirit-world,  and  how  honest  he  might 
be  in  his  otherworldliness,  let  those  say  who  have  ex- 
perience in  spookery  and  table-rapping. 

Now,  the  women  having  done  and  gone,  the  wicket 
is  open,  and  the  serving-monk  ushers  us  through  the 
dark  and  stivy  corridor  to  the  rear,  where  a  few 
boxes  marked  "  Made  in  America "  —  petroleum 
boxes,  these  —  are  offered  us  as  seats.  Before  the 
door  of  the  last  cell  are  a  few  potsherds  in  which 
sweet  basil  plants  are  withering  from  thirst.  Pres- 
ently, the  door  squeaks,  and  one,  not  drooping  like 
the  plants,  comes  out  to  greet  us.  This  is  Father 
Abd'ul-Messiah  (Servitor  of  the  Christ),  as  the  Her- 
[204] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

mit  is  called.  Here,  indeed,  is  an  up-to-date  hermit, 
not  an  antique  troglodyte.  Lean  and  lathy,  he  is,  but 
not  hungry-looking;  quick  of  eye  and  gesture;  quick 
of  step,  too.  He  seems  always  on  the  alert,  as  if 
surrounded  continually  with  spirits.  He  is  young, 
withal,  or  keeps  so,  at  least,  through  the  grace  and 
ministration  of  Allah  and  the  Virgin.  His  long  un- 
kempt hair  and  beard  are  innocent  of  a  single  white 
line.  And  his  health  ?  "  Through  my  five  and 
twenty  years  of  seclusion,"  said  he,  "  I  have  not 
known  any  disease,  except,  now  and  then,  in  the 
spring  season,  when  the  sap  begins  to  flow,  I  am 
visited  by  Allah  with  chills  and  fever. —  No;  I  eat 
but  one  meal  a  day. —  Yes;  I  am  happy,  Allah  be 
praised,  quite  happy,  very  happy." 

And  he  lifts  his  eyes  heavenward,  and  sighs  and 
rubs  his  hands  in  joyful  satisfaction.  To  us,  this 
Servitor  of  the  Christ  seemed  not  to  have  passed  the 
climacteric.  But  truly,  as  he  avowed,  he  was  enter- 
ing the  fifth  lustrum  beyond  it.  Such  are  the  ad- 
vantages of  the  ascetic  life,  and  of  such  ascetics  the 
Kingdom  of  Heaven.  A  man  of  sixty  can  carry 
twenty  years  in  his  pocket,  and  seem  all  honesty,  and 
youth,  and  health,  and  happiness. 

We  then  venture  a  question  about  the  sack-cloth, 
a  trace  of  which  was  seen  under  his  tunic  sleeve. 
And  fetching  a  deep  sigh,  he  gazes  on  the  drooping 
sweet  basils  in  silence.  No,  he  likes  not  to  speak  of 
these  mortifications  of  the  flesh.  After  some  medita- 
tion he  tells  us,  however,  that  the  sack-cloth  on  the 
first  month  is  annoying,  torturing.  "  But  the  flesh," 
[205] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

he  continues  naively,  "  is  inured  to  it,  as  the  pile,  in 
the  course  of  time,  is  broken  and  softened  down." 
And  with  an  honest  look  in  his  eyes,  he  smiled  and 
sighs  his  assurance.  For  his  Reverence  always  punc- 
tuates his  speech  with  these  sweet  sighs  of  joy.  The 
serving-monk  now  comes  to  whisper  a  word  in  his 
ear,  and  we  are  asked  to  "  scent  the  air  "  a  while  in 
the  vineyard. 

This  lovely  patch  of  terrace-ground  the  Hermit 
tills  and  cultivates  alone.  And  so  thoroughly  the 
work  is  done  that  hardly  a  stone  can  be  seen  in  the 
soil.  And  so  even  and  regular  are  the  terrace  walls 
that  one  would  think  they  were  built  with  line  and 
plummet.  The  vines  are  handsomely  trimmed  and 
trellised,  and  here  and  there,  to  break  the  monotony 
of  the  rows,  a  fig,  an  apricot,  an  almond,  or  an  olive, 
spreads  its  umbrageous  boughs.  Indeed,  it  is  most 
cheering  in  the  wilderness,  most  refreshing  to  the 
senses,  this  lovely  vineyard,  the  loveliest  we  have 
seen. 

Father  Abd'ul-Messiah  might  be  a  descendant  of 
Simeon  of  the  Pillar  for  all  we  know;  but  instead 
of  perching  on  the  top  of  it,  he  breaks  it  down  and 
builds  with  its  stones  a  wall  of  his  vineyard.  Here 
he  comes  with  his  serving-monk,  and  we  resume  the 
conversation  under  the  almond  tree. 

"  You  should  come  in  the  grape  season  to  taste  of 
my  fruits,"  says  he. 

"And  do  you  like  the  grape?"  we  ask. 

"  Yes,  but  I  prefer  to  cultivate  it." 

"  Throughout  the  season,"  the  serving-monk  puts 
[206] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

in,  "  and  though  the  grapes  be  so  plentiful,  he  tastes 
them  not." 

''No?" 

The  Hermit  is  silent;  for,  as  we  have  said,  he  is 
reluctant  in  making  such  confessions.  Virtue,  once 
bragged  about,  once  you  pride  yourself  upon  it,  ceases 
to  be  such. 

In  his  vineyard  the  Hermit  is  most  thorough,  even 
scientific.  One  vv^ould  think  that  he  believed  only  in 
work.  No;  he  does  not  sprinkle  the  vines  with  holy 
water  to  keep  the  grubs  away.  Herein  he  has  sense 
enough  to  know  that  only  in  kabrit  (sulphur)  is 
the  phylactery  which  destroys  the  phylloxera. 

"  And  what  do  you  do  when  you  are  not  work- 
ing in  your  vineyard  or  praying?" 

"  I  have  always  somewhat  to  do,  always.  For 
to  be  idle  is  to  open  the  door  for  Iblis.  I  might 
walk  up  and  down  this  corridor,  counting  the  slabs 
therein,  and  consider  my  time  well  spent."  Saying 
which  he  rises  and  points  to  the  sky.  The  purple 
fringes  of  the  clouds  are  gone  to  sable;  the  lilac  tints 
on  the  mountains  are  waxing  grey;  and  the  sombre 
twilight  with  his  torch  —  the  evening  star  had  risen 
—  is  following  in  the  wake  of  day ;  'tis  the  hour  of 
prayer. 

But  before  we  leave  him  to  his  devotion,  we  ask 
to  be  permitted  to  see  his  cell.  Ah,  that  is  against 
the  monastic  rules.  We  insist.  And  with  a  h'm, 
h'm,  and  a  shake  of  the  head,  he  rubs  his  hands  ca- 
ressingly and  opens  the  door.  Yes,  the  Reader  shall 
peep  into  this  eight  by  six  cell,  which  is  littered  all 
[207] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

around  with  rubbish,  sacred  and  profane.  In  the  cor- 
ner is  a  broken  stove  with  a  broken  pipe  attached, — 
broken  to  let  some  of  the  smoke  into  the  room,  we 
are  told.  "  For  smoke,"  quoth  the  Hermit,  quoting 
the  Doctor,  "  destroys  the  microbes  —  and  keeps  the 
room  warm  after  the  iire  goes  out." 

In  the  corner  opposite  the  stove  is  a  little  altar 
with  the  conventional  icons  and  gewgaws  and  a  num- 
ber of  prayer  books  lying  pell-mell  around.  Nearby 
is  an  old  pair  of  shoes,  in  which  are  stuck  a  few 
candles  and  St.  Anthony's  Book  of  Contemplations. 
In  the  corner  behind  the  door  Is  a  large  cage,  a  pan- 
try, suspended  middleway  between  the  floor  and  ceil- 
ing, containing  a  few  earthen  pots,  an  oil  lamp,  and 
a  jar,  covered  with  a  cloth.  Between  the  pantry 
and  the  altar,  on  a  hair-mat  spread  on  the  floor, 
sleeps  his  Reverence.  And  his  bed  is  not  so  hard  as 
you  might  suppose,  Reader;  for,  to  serve  your  curi- 
osity, we  have  been  rude  enough  to  lift  up  a  corner 
of  the  cloth,  and  we  found  underneath  a  substantial 
mattress!  On  the  bed  is  his  book  of  accounts,  which, 
being  opened,  when  we  entered,  he  hastened  to  close. 

"  You  keep  accounts,  too,  Reverence?  " 

"  Indeed,  so.  That  is  a  duty  devolved  on  every 
one  with  mortal  memory." 

Let  it  not  be  supposed,  however,  that  he  has  charge 
of  the  crops.  In  his  journal  he  keeps  the  accounts 
of  his  masses?  And  here  be  evil  sufficient  for  the 
day. 

This,  then,  is  the  inventory  of  Abd'ul-Messiah's 
cell.  And  we  do  not  think  we  have  omitted  much 
[208] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

of  importance.  Yes;  in  the  fourth  corner,  which 
we  have  not  mentioned,  are  three  or  four  petroleum 
cans  containing  provisions.  From  one  of  these  he 
brings  out  a  handful  of  dried  figs,  from  another  a 
pinch  of  incense,  which  he  gives  us  as  a  token  of  his 
love  and  blessing.  One  thing  we  fain  would  em- 
phasise, before  we  conclude  our  account.  The 
money  part  of  this  eremitic  business  need  not  be 
harshly  judged;  for  we  must  bear  in  mind  that  this 
honest  Servitor  of  Christ  is  strong  enough  not  to 
have  his  will  in  the  matter.  And  remember,  too, 
that  the  abbey's  bills  of  expenses  run  high.  If  one 
of  the  monks,  therefore,  is  blessed  with  a  talent  for 
solitude  and  seclusion,  his  brother  monks  shall  profit 
by  it.  Indeed,  we  were  told,  that  the  income  of  the 
Hermitage,  that  is,  the  sum  total  in  gold  of  the  oc- 
cult and  the  agricultural  endeavours  of  Abd'ul-Mes- 
slah,  is  enough  to  defray  the  yearly  expenditures  of 
the  monkery.  Further,  we  have  nothing  to  say  on 
the  subject.  But  Khalid  has.  And  of  his  lengthy 
lucubration  on  The  Uses  of  Solitude,  we  cull  the 
following: 

"  Every  one's  life  at  certain  times,"  writes  he,  "  is 
either  a  Temple,  a  Hermitage,  or  a  Vineyard:  every 
one,  in  order  to  flee  the  momentary  afflictions  of  Des- 
tiny, takes  refuge  either  in  God,  or  in  Solitude,  or  in 
Work.  And  of  a  truth,  work  is  the  balm  of  the  sore 
mind  of  the  world.  God  and  Solitude  are  luxuries 
which  only  a  few  amiong  us  nowadays  can  afford.  But 
he  who  lives  in  the  three,  though  his  life  be  that  of  a 
silk  larva  in  its  cocoon,  is  he  not  individually  considered 
[209] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

a  good  man?  Is  he  not  a  mystic,  though  uncreative, 
centre  of  goodness?  Surely,  his  influence,  his  Me 
alone  considered,  is  living  and  benign,  and  though  it 
is  not  life-giving.  He  is  a  flickering  taper  under 
a  bushel;  and  this,  billah,  wtre.  better  than  the 
pissasphaltum-souls  which  bushels  of  quackery  and  pre- 
tence can  not  hide.  But  alas,  that  a  good  man  by 
nature  should  be  so  weak  as  to  surrender  himself  en- 
tirely to  a  lot  of  bad  men.  For  the  monks,  my  brother 
Hermit,  being  a  silk  worm  in  its  cocoon,  will  asphyxiate 
the  larva  after  its  work  is  done,  and  utilise  the  silk. 
Ay,  after  the  Larva  dies,  they  pickle  and  preserve  it  in 
their  chapel  for  the  benefit  of  those  who  sought  its 
oracles  in  life.  Let  the  beef-packers  of  America  take 
notice;  the  monks  of  my  country  are  in  the  market 
with  '  canned  hermits ! ' 

"  And  this  Larva,  be  it  remembered,  is  not  subject 
to  decay;  a  saint  does  not  decompose  in  the  flesh  like 
mortal  sinners.  One  of  these,  I  have  been  told,  dead 
fifty  years  ago  and  now  canonised,  can  be  seen  yet  in 
one  of  the  monasteries  of  North  Lebanon,  keeping  well 
his  flesh  and  bones  together  —  divinely  embalmed.  It 
has  been  truly  said  that  the  work  of  a  good  man  never 
dies ;  and  these  leathery  hermits  continue  in  death  as  In 
life  to  counsel  and  console  the  Faithful. 

"  In  the  past,  these  Larvae,  not  being  cultivated  for 
the  market,  continued  their  natural  course  of  develop- 
ment and  issued  out  of  their  silk  prisons  full  fledged 
moths.  But  those  who  cultivate  them  to-day  are  in 
sore  need.  They  have  masses  and  indulgences  to  sell ; 
they  have  big  bills  to  pay.  But  whether  left  to  grow 
[210] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 

their  wings  or  not,  their  soh'tude  is  that  of  a  cocoon 
larva,  narrow,  stale,  unprofitable  to  the  world.  While 
that  of  a  philosopher,  a  Thoreau,  for  instance,  might 
be  called  Nature's  filter;  and  one,  issuing  therefrom 
benefited  in  every  sense,  morally,  physically,  spiritually, 
can  be  said  to  have  been  filtered  through  Solitude." 

"  The  study  of  life  at  a  distance  is  inutile ;  the  study 
of  it  at  close  range  is  defective.  The  only  method 
left,  therefore,  and  perhaps  the  true  one,  is  that  of 
the  artist  at  his  canvas.  He  works  at  his  picture  an 
hour  or  two,  and  retires  a  little  to  study  and  criti- 
cise it  from  a  distance.  It  is  impossible  to  withdraw 
entirely  from  life  and  pretend  to  take  an  interest 
in  it.  Either  like  my  brother  Hermit  in  these  parts, 
a  spiritual  larva  in  its  cocoon,  or  like  a  Thoreau, 
who  during  his  period  of  seclusion,  peeped  every  fort- 
night into  the  village  to  keep  up  at  least  his  prac- 
tice of  human  speech.  Else  what  is  the  use  of  soli- 
tude? A  life  of  fantasy,  I  muse,  is  nearer  to  the 
heart  of  Nature  and  Truth  than  a  life  in  sack-cloth 
and   ashes.     .     .     . 

"  And  yet,  deeply  considered,  this  eremitic  business 
presents  another  aspect.  For  does  not  the  eremite 
through  his  art  of  prayer  and  devotion,  seek  an  ideal? 
Is  he  not  a  transcendentalist,  at  least  in  the  German 
sense  of  the  word?  Is  not  his  philosophy  above  all 
the  senses,  as  the  term  implies,  and  common  sense  in- 
cluded? For  through  Mother  Church,  and  with 
closed  eyes,  he  will  attain  the  ideal,  of  which  my 
German  philosopher,  through  the  logic-mill,  and  with 
eyes  open,  hardly  gets  a  glimpse. 

[211] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

**  The  devout  and  poetic  souls,  and  though  they 
walk  among  the  crowd,  live  most  of  their  lives  in 
solitude.  Through  Mother  Sorrow,  or  Mother 
Fancy,  or  Mother  Church,  they  are  ever  seeking  the 
ideal,  which  to  them  is  otherwise  unattainable.  And 
whether  a  howler  of  Turabu  or  a  member  of  the 
French  Academy,  man,  in  this  penumbra  of  faith 
and  doubt,  of  superstition  and  imagination,  is  much 
the  same.  '  The  higher  powers  in  us,'  says  Nova- 
lis,  'which  one  day,  as  Genii,  shall  fulfil  our  will, 
are  for  the  present.  Muses,  which  refresh  us  on  our 
toilsome  course  with  sweet  remembrances.'  And  the 
jinn,  the  fairies,  the  angels,  the  muses,  are  as  young 
and  vivacious  to-day  as  they  were  in  the  Arabian 
and  Gaelic  Ages  of  Romance. 

"  But  whether  Mother  Church  or  Poetry  or  Phi- 
losophy or  Music  be  the  magic-medium,  the  result 
is  much  the  same  if  the  motive  be  not  religiously 
sincere,  sincerely  religious,  piously  pure,  lofty,  and 
humane.  Ay,  my  Larva-Hermit,  with  all  his  bigotry 
and  straitness  of  soul,  stands  higher  than  most  of 
your  artists  and  poets  and  musicians  of  the  present 
day.  For  a  life  sincerely  spent  between  the  Tem- 
ple and  the  Vineyard,  between  devotion  and  honest 
labour,  producing  to  one  man  of  all  mankind  some 
positive  good,  is  not  to  be  compared  with  the  life 
which  oscillates  continuously  between  egoism  and 
vanity,  quackery  and  cowardice,  selfishness  and  pre- 
tence, and  which  never  rises,  do  what  it  may,  above 
the  larva  state,     .     .     . 

"  Let  every  one  cultivate  with  pious  sincerity  some 
[212] 


IN    THE    TEMPLE 


such  vineyard  as  my  Hermit's  and  the  world  will 
not  further  need  reform.  For  through  all  the  vapour 
and  mist  of  his  ascetic  theology,  through  the  tor- 
tuous chasm  of  his  eremitic  logic,  through  the  big- 
otry and  crass  superstition  of  his  soul,  I  can  always 
see  the  Vineyard  on  the  one  side  of  his  cell,  and  the 
Church  on  the  other,  and  say  to  myself:  Here  be 
a  man  who  is  never  idle;  here  be  one  who  loves  the 
leisure  praised  by  Socrates,  and  hates  the  sluggish- 
ness which  Iblis  decks  and  titivates.  And  if  he 
crawls  between  his  Church  and  his  Vineyard,  and 
burrows  in  both  for  a  solution  of  life,  nay,  spins  in 
both  the  cocoon  of  his  ideal,  he  ought  not  to  be  judged 
from  on  high.  Come  thou  near  him;  descend;  de- 
scend a  little  and  see:  has  he  not  a  task,  and  though 
it  be  of  the  taper-under-the-bushel  kind?  Has  he  not 
a  faith  and  a  sincerity  which  in  a  Worm  of  the 
Earth  ought  to  be  reckoned  sublime?  '  If  there  were 
sorrow  in  heaven,'  he  once  said  to  me,  *  how  many 
there  would  continuously  lament  the  time  they  wasted 
in  this  world  ?  ' 

"  O  my  Brothers,  build  your  Temples  and  have 
your  Vineyards,  even  though  it  be  In  the  rocky  wil- 
derness." 


[213] 


BOOK  THE  THIRD 
IN  KULMAKAN 


TO  GOD  1 

In  the  religious  systems  of  mankind,  I  sought 
thee,  O  God,  in  vain;  in  their  machine-made  dogmas 
and  theologies,  I  sought  thee  in  vain;  in  their 
churches  and  temples  and  mosques,  I  sought  thee  long, 
and  long  in  vain;  but  in  the  Sacred  Books  of  the 
World,  what  have  I  found?  A  letter  of  thy  name,  O 
God,  I  have  deciphered  in  the  Vedas,  another  in  the 
Zend-Avesta,  another  in  the  Bible,  another  in  the 
Koran.  Ay,  even  in  the  Book  of  the  Royal  Society 
and  in  the  Records  of  the  Society  for  Psychical  Re- 
search, have  I  found  the  diacritical  signs  which  the  in- 
fant races  of  this  Planet  Earth  have  not  yet  learned  to 
apply  to  the  consonants  of  thy  name.  The  lisping  in- 
fant races  of  this  Earth,  when  will  they  learn  to  pro- 

^  Arabic  Symbol. 


nounce  thy  name  entire?  Who  shall  supply  the  Vow- 
els which  shall  unite  the  Gutturals  of  the  Sacred 
Books?  Who  shall  point  out  the  dashes  which  com- 
pound the  opposite  loadstars  in  the  various  regions  ef 
thy  Heaven?  On  the  veil  of  the  eternal  mystery  are 
palimpsests  of  which  every  race  has  deciphered  a  con- 
sonant. And  through  the  diacritical  marks  which  the 
seers  and  paleologists  of  the  future  shall  furnish,  the 
various  dissonances  in  thy  name  shall  be  reduced,  for 
the  sake  of  the  infant  races  of  the  Earth,  to  perfect 
harmony. — Khalid. 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  DISENTANGLEMENT  OF  THE  ME 

**\TI7HY  this  exaggerated  sense  of  thine  importance," 
^^  Khalid  asks  himself  in  the  K.  L.  MS.,  "  when 
a  little  ptomaine  in  thy  cheese  can  poison  the  source 
of  thy  lofty  contemplations?  Why  this  inflated  con- 
ception of  thy  Me,  when  an  infusion  of  poppy  seeds 
might  lull  it  to  sleep,  even  to  stupefaction?  What 
avails  thy  logic  when  a  little  of  the  Mandragora  can 
melt  the  material  universe  into  golden,  unfolding  in- 
finities of  dreams?  Why  take  thyself  so  seriously 
when  a  leaf  of  henbane,  taken  by  mistake  in  thy  salad, 
can  destroy  thee?  But  the  soul  is  not  dependent  on 
health  or  disease.  The  soul  is  the  source  of  both 
health  and  disease.  And  life,  therefore,  is  either  a 
healthy  or  a  diseased  state  of  the  soul. 

"  One  day,  when  I  was  rolling  these  questions  in  my 
mind,  and  working  on  a  reed  basket  to  present  to  my 
friend  the  Hermit  as  a  farewell  memento,  his  serving- 
monk  brings  me  some  dried  figs  in  a  blue  kerchief  and 
says,  *  My  Master  greets  thee  and  prays  thee  come  to 
him.'  I  do  so  the  following  morning,  bringing  with 
me  the  finished  basket,  and  as  I  enter  the  Hermitage 
court,  I  find  him  repairing  a  stone  wall  in  the  vineyard. 
As  he  sees  me,  he  hastens  to  put  on  his  cloak  that  I 
might  not  remark  the  sack-cloth  he  wore,  and  with  a 
[219] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KKALID 

pious  smile  of  assurance  and  thankfulness,  welcomes 
and  embraces  me,  as  is  his  wont.  We  sit  down  in  the 
corridor  before  the  chapel  door.  The  odorous  vapor 
of  what  was  still  burning  in  the  censer  within  hung 
above  us.  The  holy  atmosphere  mantled  the  dread 
silence  of  the  place.  And  the  slow,  insinuating  smell 
of  incense,  like  the  fumes  of  gunga,  weighed  heavy  on 
my  eyelids  and  seemed  to  brush  from  my  memory  the 
cobwebs  of  time.  A  drowsiness  possessed  me;  I  felt 
like  one  awaking  from  a  dream.  I  asked  for  the  water 
jug,  which  the  Hermit  hastened  to  bring.  And  looking 
through  the  door  of  the  chapel,  I  saw  on  the  altar  a 
burning  cresset  flickering  like  the  planet  Mercury  on 
a  December  morning.  How  often  did  I  light  such  a 
cresset  when  a  boy,  I  mused.  Yes,  I  was  an  acolyte 
once.  I  swang  the  censer  and  drank  deep  of  the  in- 
cense fumes  as  I  chanted  in  Syriac  the  service.  And  I 
remember  when  I  made  a  mistake  one  day  in  reading 
the  Epistle  of  Paul,  the  priest,  who  was  of  an  irascible 
humour,  took  me  by  the  ear  and  made  me  spell  the 
words  I  could  not  pronounce.  And  the  boys  in  the  con- 
gregation tittered  gleefully.  In  my  mortification  was 
honey  for  them.  Such  was  my  pride,  nevertheless, 
such  the  joy  I  felt,  when,  of  all  the  boys  that  gathered 
round  the  lectern  at  vespers,  I  was  called  upon  to  read 
in  the  sinksar  (hagiography)  the  Life  of  the  Saint  of 
the  day. 

"  I  knew  then  that  to  steal,  for  instance.  Is  a  sin ; 

and  yet,  I  emptied  the  box  of  wafers  every  morning 

after  mass  and  shared  them  with  the  very  boys  who 

laughed  at  my  mistakes.     One  day,  in  the  purest  in- 

[220] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

tention,  I  offered  one  of  these  wafers  to  my  donkey  and 
he  would  not  eat  it.  I  felt  insulted,  and  never  after 
did  I  pilfer  a  wafer.  Now,  as  I  muse  on  these  sallies 
of  boyish  waywardness  I  am  impressed  with  the  idea 
that  the  certainty  and  daring  of  Ignorance,  or  might  I 
say  Innocence,  are  great.  Indeed,  to  the  pure  every- 
thing is  pure.  But  strange  to  relate  that  as  I  sat  in 
the  corridor  of  the  Hermitage  and  saw  the  light  flick- 
ering on  the  altar,  I  hankered  for  a  wafer,  and  was 
tempted  to  go  into  the  chapel  and  filch  one.  What 
prevented  me?  Alas,  knowledge  makes  sceptics  and 
cowards  of  us  all.  And  the  pursuit  of  knowledge,  ac- 
cording to  my  Hermit,  nay,  the  noblest  pursuit,  even 
the  serving  of  God,  ceases  to  be  a  virtue  the  moment 
we  begin  to  enjoy  it. 

"  '  It  is  necessary  to  conquer,  not  only  our  in- 
stincts,' he  continued,  '  but  our  intellectual  and  our 
spiritual  passions  as  well.  To  force  our  will  in  the 
obedience  of  a  higher  will,  to  leave  behind  all  our 
mundane  desires  in  the  pursuit  of  the  one  great  desire, 
herein  lies  the  essence  of  true  virtue.  St.  Anthony 
would  snatch  his  hours  of  devotion  from  the  Devil. 
Even  prayer  to  him  was  a  struggle,  an  effort  not  to 
feel  the  joy  of  it.  Yes,  we  must  always  disobey  our 
impulses,  and  resist  the  tyranny  of  our  desires.  When 
I  have  a  strong  desire  to  pray,  I  go  out  into  the  vine- 
yard and  work.  When  I  begin  to  enjoy  my  work  in 
the  vineyard,  I  cease  to  do  it  well.  Therefore,  I  take 
up  my  breviary.  Do  that  which  you  must  not  do, 
when  you  are  suffering,  and  you  will  not  want  to  do 
it  again,  when  you  are  happy.  The  other  day,  one 
[221] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

who  visited  the  Hermitage,  spoke  to  me  of  you,  O 
Khalid.  He  said  you  were  what  is  called  an  anarchist. 
And  after  explaining  to  me  what  is  meant  by  this  — 
I  never  heard  of  such  a  religion  before  —  I  discovered 
to  my  surprise  that  I,  too,  am  an  anarchist.  But  there 
is  this  difference  between  us:  I  obey  only  God  and 
the  authority  of  God,  and  you  obey  your  instincts  and 
what  is  called  the  authority  of  reason.  Yours,  O  Kha- 
lid, is  a  narrow  conception  of  anarchy.  In  truth,  you 
should  try  to  be  an  anarchist  like  me:  subordinate  your 
personality,  your  will  and  mind  and  soul,  to  a  higher 
will  and  intelligence,  and  resist  with  all  your  power 
everything  else.  Why  do  you  not  come  to  the  Her- 
mitage for  a  few  days  and  make  me  your  confessor?  ' 

"  '  I  do  not  confess  in  private,  and  I  can  not  sleep 
within  doors.' 

"  '  You  do  not  have  to  do  so ;  the  booth  under  the  al- 
mond tree  is  at  your  disposal.  Come  for  a  spiritual 
exercise  of  one  week  only.' 

**  *  I  have  been  going  through  such  an  exercise  for  a 
year,  and  soon  I  shall  leave  my  cloister  in  the  pines.' 

What  say  you  ?  You  are  leaving  our  neighbour- 
hood? No,  no;  remain  here,  O  Khalid.  Come,  live 
with  me  in  the  Hermitage.  Come  back  to  Mother 
Church;  return  not  to  the  wicked  world.  O  Khalid, 
we  must  inherit  the  Kingdom  of  Allah,  and  we  can  not 
do  so  by  being  anarchist  like  the  prowlers  of  the  for- 
est. Meditate  on  the  insignificance  and  evanescence 
of  human  life.' 

But  it  lies  within  us,  O  my  Brother,  to  make  it 
significant  and  eternal.' 

[222] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

" '  Yes,  truly,  in  the  bosom  of  Mother  Church. 
Come  back  to  your  Mother  —  come  to  the  Hermitage 
—  let  us  pass  this  life  together.' 

"  '  And  what  will  you  do,  if  in  the  end  you  discover 
that  I  am  in  the  right  ? ' 

"  Here  he  paused  a  moment,  and,  casting  on  me  a 
benignant  glance,  makes  this  reply:  'Then,  I  will 
rejoice,  rejoice,'  he  gasped ;  '  for  we  shall  both  be  in  the 
right.  You  will  become  an  anarchist  like  me  and  not 
against  the  wretched  authorities  of  the  world,  but 
against  your  real  enemies.  Instinct  and  Reason.' 

"  And  thus,  now  and  then,  he  would  salt  his  argu- 
ment with  a  pinch  of  casuistic  wit.  Once  he  was  hard 
set,  and,  to  escape  the  alternatives  of  the  situation,  he 
condescended  to  tell  me  the  story  of  his  first  and  only 
love. 

"  *  In  my  youth,'  said  the  Hermit,  *  I  was  a  shoe- 
maker, and  not  a  little  fastidious  as  a  craftsman.  In 
fact,  I  am,  and  always  have  been,  an  extremist,  a  pur- 
ist. I  can  not  tolerate  the  cobblings  of  life.  Either 
do  your  work  skilfully,  devotedly,  earnestly,  or  do  it 
not.  So,  as  a  shoemaker,  I  succeeded  very  well. 
Truth  to  tell,  my  work  was  as  good,  as  neat,  as  ele- 
gant as  that  of  the  best  craftsman  in  Beirut.  And  you 
know,  Beirut  is  noted  for  its  shoemakers.  Yes,  I  was 
successful  as  any  of  them,  and  I  counted  among  my 
customers  the  bishop  of  the  diocese  himself.  One  day, 
forgive  me,  Allah!  a  young  girl,  the  daughter  of  a 
peasant  neighbour,  comes  into  the  shop  to  order  a  pair 
of  shoes.  In  taking  the  measure  of  her  foot  —  but  I 
must  not  linger  on  these  details.  A  shoemaker  can 
[223] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

not  fail  to  notice  the  shape  of  his  customer's  foot. 
Well,  I  measured,  too,  her  ankle  —  ah,  forgive  me, 
Allah ! 

"  '  In  brief,  when  the  shoes  were  finished  —  I  spent 
a  whole  day  in  the  finishing  touches  —  I  made  her  a 
present  of  them.  And  she,  in  recognition  of  my  favor, 
made  a  plush  tobacco  bag,  on  which  my  name  was 
worked  in  gold  threads,  and  sent  it  to  me,  wrapped  in 
a  silk  handkerchief,  with  her  brother.  Now,  that  is 
the  opening  chapter.  I  will  abruptly  come  to  the  last, 
skipping  the  intermediate  parts,  for  they  are  too  silly, 
all  of  them.  I  will  only  say  that  I  was  as  earnest,  as 
sincere,  as  devoted  in  this  affair  of  love  as  I  was  in 
my  craft.     Of  a  truth,  I  was  mad  about  both. 

"  '  Now  the  closing  chapter.  One  day  I  went  to  see 
her  —  we  were  engaged  —  and  found  she  had  gone  to 
the  spring  for  water.  I  follow  her  there  and  find  her 
talking  to  a  young  man,  a  shoemaker  like  myself.  No, 
he  was  but  a  cobbler.  On  the  following  day,  going 
again  to  see  her,  I  find  this  cobbler  there.  I  remon- 
strate with  her,  but  in  vain.  And  what  is  worse,  she 
had  sent  to  him  the  shoes  I  made,  to  be  repaired.  He 
was  patching  my  own  work!  I  swallowed  my  ire  and 
went  back  to  my  shop.  A  week  later,  to  be  brief,  I 
went  there  again,  and  what  I  beheld  made  my  body 
shiver.  She,  the  wench.  Forgive  me,  Allah !  had  her 
hands  around  his  neck  and  her  lips  —  yes,  her  lying 
lips,  on  his  cheek!  No,  no;  even  then  I  did  not  utter 
a  word.  I  could  but  cry  in  the  depth  of  my  heart. 
How  can  woman  be  so  faithless,  so  treacherous  —  in 
my  heart  I  cried. 

[224] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

"  '  It  was  a  terrible  shock;  and  from  it  I  lay  in  bed 
for  days  with  chills  and  fever.  Now,  when  I  recov- 
ered, I  was  determined  on  pursuing  a  new  course  of 
life.  No  longer  would  I  measure  women's  feet.  I 
sold  my  stock,  closed  my  shop,  and  entered  the  mon- 
astery. I  heard  afterwards  that  she  married  that  young 
cobbler;  emigrated  with  him  to  America;  deserted  him 
there;  returned  to  her  native  village;  married  again, 
and  fled  with  her  second  husband  to  South  Africa. 
Allah  be  praised!  even  He  appreciates  the  difference 
between  a  shoemaker  and  a  cobbler ;  and  the  bad  woman 
He  gives  to  the  bad  craftsman.  That  is  why  I  say, 
Never  be  a  cobbler,  whatever  you  do. 

But  in  the  monastery  —  draw  near,  I  will  speak 
freely  —  in  the  monastery,  too,  there  are  cobblers  and 
shoemakers.  There,  too,  is  much  ungodliness,  much 
treachery,  much  cobbling.  Ah  me,  I  must  not  speak 
thus.  Forgive  me,  Allah!  But  I  promised  to  tell 
you  the  whole  story.  Therefore,  I  will  speak  freely. 
After  passing  some  years  in  the  monastery,  years  of 
probation  and  grief  they  were,  I  fell  sick  with  a  viru- 
lent fever.  The  abbot,  seeing  that  there  was  little 
chance  of  my  recovery,  would  not  send  for  the  physi- 
cian. And  so,  I  languished  for  weeks,  suffering  from 
thirst  and  burning  pains  and  hunger.  I  raved  and 
chattered  in  my  delirium.  I  betrayed  myself,  too, 
they  told  me.  The  monks  my  brothers,  even  during 
my  suffering,  made  a  scandal  of  the  love  affair  I  re- 
lated. They  said  that  I  exposed  my  wounds  and  my 
broken  heart  before  the  Virgin,  that  I  sinned  in  thought 
and  word  on  my  death-bed.  Allah  forgive  them.  It 
[225] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

may  be,  however ;  for  I  know  not  what  I  said  and  what 
I  did.  But  when  I  recovered,  I  was  determined  not  to 
remain  in  the  monastery,  and  not  to  return  to  the 
world.  The  wicked  world,  I  disentangled  myself  ab- 
solutely from  its  poisoned  meshes.  I  came  to  the  Her- 
mitage, to  this  place.  And  never,  since  I  made  my 
second  remove  until  now,  have  I  known  disease,  or 
sorrow,  nor  treachery,  which  is  worse  than  both.  Al- 
lah be  praised!  One's  people,  one's  brothers,  one's 
lovers  and  friends,  are  a  hindrance  and  botheration. 
We  are  nothing,  nothing:  God  is  everything.  God  is 
the  only  reality.  And  in  God  alone  is  my  refuge. 
That  is  my  story  in  brief.  If  I  did  not  like  you,  I 
would  not  have  told  it,  and  so  freely.  Meditate  upon 
it,  and  on  the  insignificance  and  evanescence  of  human 
life.  The  world  is  a  snare,  and  a  bad  snare,  at  that. 
For  it  can  not  hold  us  long  enough  in  it  to  learn  to 
like  it.  It  is  a  cobbler's  snare.  The  world  is  full  of 
cobblers,  O  Khalid.  Come  away  from  it;  be  an  ideal 
craftsman  —  be  an  extremist  —  be  a  purist  —  come 
live  with  me.  Let  us  join  our  souls  in  devotion,  and 
our  hearts  in  love.  Come,  let  us  till  and  cultivate 
this  vineyard  together.' 

"  And  taking  me  by  the  hand,  he  shows  me  a  cell 
furnished  with  a  hair-mat,  a  masnad  (leaning  pillow), 
and  a  chair.  *  This  cell,'  says  he,  '  was  occupied  by 
the  Bishop  when  he  came  here  for  a  spiritual  exercise 
of  three  weeks.  It  shall  be  yours  if  you  come;  it's  the 
best  cell  in  the  Hermitage.  Now,  let  us  visit  the 
chapel.'  I  go  in  with  him,  and  as  we  are  coming  out, 
I  ask  him  child-like  for  a  wafer.  He  brings  the  box 
[226] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

straightway,  begs  me  to  take  as  much  as  I  desire,  and 
placing  his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  encircles  me  with 
one  of  his  benignant  glances,  saying,  '  Allah  illumine 
thy  heart,  O  Khalid.'  '  Allah  hear  thy  prayer,'  I  re- 
ply.    And  we  part  in  tears." 

Here  Khalid  bursts  in  ecstasy  about  the  higher  spir- 
itual kingdom,  and  chops  a  little  logic  about  the  I  and 
the  not-I,  the  Reality  and  the  non-Reality. — 
"  God,"  says  the  Hermit.  *'  Thought,"  says  the 
Idealist,  "  that  is  the  only  Reality."  And  what  is 
Thought,  and  what  is  God,  and  what  is  Matter,  and 
what  is  Spirit?  They  are  the  mysterious  vessels  of 
Life,  which  are  always  being  filled  by  Love  and  emp- 
tied by  Logic.  "  The  external  world,"  says  the  Ma- 
terialist—  "  Does  not  exist,"  says  the  Idealist.  "  'Tis 
immaterial  if  it  does  or  not,"  says  the  Hermit.  And 
what  if  the  three  are  wrong?  The  Universe,  know- 
able  and  unknowable,  will  it  be  affected  a  whit  by  it? 
If  the  German  Professor's  Chair  of  Logic  and  Philos- 
ophy were  set  up  in  the  Hermitage,  would  anything  be 
gained  or  lost?  Let  the  /  deny  the  stars,  and  they 
will  nevertheless  roll  in  silence  above  it.  Let  the  not-I 
crush  this  I,  this  "  thinking  reed,"  and  the  higher  uni- 
versal I,  rising  above  the  stars  and  flooding  the  side- 
real heavens  with  light,  will  warm,  remold,  and  re- 
generate the  world. 

"  I  can  conceive  of  a  power,"  writes  Khalid  in  that 
vexing  Manuscript,  "  which  can  create  a  beautiful 
parti-colored  sun-flower  of  the  shattered  fragments  of 
Idealism,  Materialism,  and  my  Hermit's  theology. 
Why  not,  if  in  the  New  World  — "  And  here,  of  a 
[227] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

sudden,  to  surprise  and  bewilder  us,  he  drags  in  Mrs. 
Eddy  and  the  Prophet  Dowie  yoked  under  the  yoke  of 
Whitman.  He  marks  the  Key  to  Scripture  with  blades 
from  Leaves  of  Grass,  and  such  fuel  as  he  gathers  from 
both,  he  lights  with  an  ember  borrowed  from  the  char- 
iot to  Elijah.  And  thus,  for  ten  whole  pages,  beating 
continually,  now  in  the  dark  of  Metaphysics,  now  in 
the  dusk  of  Science;  losing  himself  in  the  tangled 
bushes  of  English  Materialism,  and  German  Mysti- 
cism, and  Arabic  Sufism ;  calling  now  to  Berkeley,  now 
to  Haekel;  meeting  with  Spencer  here,  with  Al-Gaz- 
zaly  there ;  and  endeavoring  to  extricate  himself  in  the 
end  with  some  such  efforts  as  "  the  Natural  being 
Negativity,  the  Spiritual  must  be  the  opposite  of  that, 
and  both  united  in  God  form  the  Absolute,"  etc.,  etc. 
But  we  shall  not  give  ourselves  further  pain  in  laying 
before  the  English  reader  the  like  heavy  and  un- 
wieldy lumber.  Whoever  relishes  such  stuff,  and  can 
digest  it,  need  not  apply  to  Khalid;  for,  in  this  case, 
he  is  but  a  poor  third-hand  caterer.  Better  go  to  the 
Manufacturers  direct;  they  are  within  reach  of  every 
one  in  this  Age  of  Machinery  and  Popular  Editions. 
But  there  are  passages  here,  of  which  Khalid  can  say, 
'  The  Mortar  at  least  is  mine.'  And  in  this  Mortar 
he  mixes  and  titrates  with  his  Neighbour's  Pestle  some 
of  his  fantasy  and  insight.  Of  these  we  offer  a  sam- 
ple: 

"  I  say  with  psychologists,  as  the  organism,  so  is  the 

personality.     The  revelation  of  the  Me  is  perfect  in 

proportion  to  the  sound  state  of  the  Medium.     But 

according  to  the  Arabic  proverb,  the  jar  oozes  of  its 

[228] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

contents.  If  these  be  of  a  putridinous  mixture,  there- 
fore, no  matter  how  sound  the  jar,  the  ooze  is  not  go- 
ing to  smell  of  ambergris  and  musk.  So,  it  all  de- 
pends on  the  contents  with  which  the  Potter  fills  his 
jugs  and  pipkins,  I  assure  you.  And  if  the  contents 
are  good  and  the  jar  is  sound,  we  get  such  excellence 
of  soul  as  is  rare  among  mortals.  If  the  contents  are 
excellent  and  the  jar  is  cracked,  the  objective  influ- 
ence will  then  predominate,  and  putrescence,  soon  or 
late,  will  set  in.  Now,  the  Me  in  the  majority  of 
mankind  comes  to  this  world  In  a  cracked  pipkin,  and 
it  oozes  out  entirely  as  soon  as  it  liquifies  in  youth. 
The  pipkin,  therefore,  goes  through  life  empty  and 
cracked,  ever  sounding  flat  and  false.  While  in 
others  the  Me  is  enclosed  In  a  sealed  straw-covered 
flask  and  can  only  be  awakened  by  either  evaporation 
or  decapitation,  in  other  words,  by  a  spiritual  revolu- 
tion. And  in  the  very  few  among  mortals,  it  emerges 
out  of  the  iron  calyx  of  a  flower  of  red-hot  steel,  or 
flows  from  the  transparent,  odoriferous  bosom  of  a 
rose  of  light.  In  the  first  we  have  a  Caesar,  an  Alex- 
ander, a  Napoleon;  In  the  second,  a  Buddha,  a  Soc- 
rates, a  Christ. 

"  But  consider  that  Science,  In  the  course  of  psycho- 
logical analysis,  speaks  of  Christ,  Napoleon,  and 
Shakespeare,  as  patients.  Such  exalted  states  of  the 
soul,  such  activity  of  the  mind,  such  exuberance  of 
spiritual  strength,  are  but  the  results  of  the  trans- 
formation of  the  Me  in  the  subject,  we  are  told,  and 
this  transformation  has  its  roots  In  the  organism. 
But  why,  I  ask,  should  there  be  such  a  gulf  between 
[229] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

individuals,  such  a  difference  in  their  Mes,  when  a  dif- 
ference in  the  organism  is  a  trifle  in  comparison? 
How  account  for  the  ebb  and  flow  in  the  souls,  or  let 
us  say,  in  the  expression  of  the  individualities,  of  Mo- 
hammad the  Prophet,  for  instance,  and  Mohammad 
the  camel-herd?  And  why  is  it  in  psychological 
states  that  are  similar,  the  consciousness  of  the  one  is 
like  a  mountain  peak,  so  to  speak,  and  that  of  the 
other  like  a  cave? 

"  A  soldier  is  severely  wounded  in  battle  and  a 
change  takes  place  in  his  nervous  organism,  by  reason 
of  which  he  loses  his  organic  consciousness ;  or,  to  speak 
in  the  phraseology  of  the  psychologist,  he  loses  the 
sense  of  his  own  body,  of  his  physical  personality. 
The  cause  of  this  change  is  probably  the  wound  re- 
ceived ;  but  the  nature  of  the  change  can  be  explained 
only  by  hypotheses,  which  are  become  matters  of 
choice  and  taste  —  and  sometimes  of  personal  inter- 
est among  scientists.  Now,  when  the  question  is  re- 
solved by  hypothesis,  is  not  even  a  layman  free  to 
offer  one?  If  I  say  the  Glass  is  shattered  and  the 
Me  within  is  sadly  reflected,  or  in  a  more  tragic  in- 
stance the  light  of  the  Me  runs  out,  would  I  not  be 
offering  thee  a  solution  as  clear  and  tenable  as  that 
of  the  professor  of  psychology?" 


[230] 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  DAWN 

"DREATHLESS  but  scathless,  we  emerge  from 
the  mazes  of  metaphysics  and  psychology  where 
man  and  the  soul  are  ever  playing  hide-and-seek;  and 
where  Khalid  was  pleased  to  display  a  little  of  his 
killing  skill  in  fencing.  To  those  mazes,  we  promise 
the  Reader,  we  shall  not  return  again.  In  our  present 
sojourn,  however,  it  is  necessary  to  go  through  the 
swamps  and  Jordans  as  well  as  the  mountains  and 
plains.  Otherwise,  we  would  not  have  lingered  a 
breathing  while  in  the  lowlands  of  mystery.  But  now 
we  know  how  far  Khalid  went  in  seeking  health,  and 
how  deep  in  seeking  the  Me,  which  he  would  disen- 
tangle from  the  meshes  of  philosophy  and  anchoretism, 
and  bring  back  to  life,  triumphant,  loving,  joyous, 
free.  And  how  far  he  succeeded  in  this,  we  shall  soon 
know. 

On  the  morning  of  his  last  day  in  the  pines,  mean- 
while, we  behold  him  in  the  chariot  of  Apollo  sere- 
nading the  stars.  He  no  longer  would  thrust  a  poker 
down  his  windpipe;  for  he  breathes  as  freely  as  the 
mountain  bears  and  chirps  as  joyously  as  the  swallows. 
And  his  lungs?  The  lungs  of  the  pines  are  not  as 
sound.  And  his  eyes?  Well,  he  can  gaze  at  the  ris- 
ing sun  without  adverting  the  head  or  squinting  or 
[231] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

shedding  a  tear.  Now,  as  a  sign  of  this  healthy  state 
of  body  and  mind,  and  his  healthier  resolve  to  return 
to  the  world,  to  live  opposite  his  friend  the  Hermit 
on  the  other  antipode  of  life,  and  furthermore,  as  a 
relief  from  the  exhausting  tortuosities  of  thought  in 
the  last  Chapter,  we  give  here  a  piece  of  description 
notably  symbolical. 

"  I  slept  very  early  last  night ;  the  lights  In  the 
chapel  of  the  abbey  were  still  flickering,  and  the 
monks  were  chanting  the  complines.  The  mellow 
music  of  a  drizzle  seemed  to  respond  sombrely  to  the 
melancholy  echo  of  the  choir.  About  midnight  the 
rain  beat  heavily  on  the  pine  roof  of  the  forest,  and 
the  thunder  must  have  struck  very  near,  between  me 
and  the  monks.  But  rising  very  early  this  morning 
to  commune  for  the  last  time  with  the  pensive  silence 
of  dawn  In  the  pines,  I  am  greeted,  as  I  peep  out  of 
my  booth,  by  a  knot  of  ogling  stars.  But  where  Is 
the  opaque  breath  of  the  storm,  where  are  the  clouds? 
None  seem  to  hang  on  the  horizon,  and  the  sky  Is  as 
limpid  and  clear  as  the  dawn  of  a  new  life.  Glorious, 
this  interval  between  night  and  dawn.  Delicious,  the 
flavour  of  the  forest  after  a  storm.  Intoxicating,  the 
odours  of  the  earth,  refreshed  and  satisfied.  Divine, 
the  whispers  of  the  morning  air,  divine! 

"  But  where  is  the  rain,  and  where  are  the  thunder- 
bolts of  last  night?  The  forest  and  the  atmosphere 
retain  but  the  sweet  and  scented  memories  of  their 
storming  passion.  Such  a  December  morning  In  these 
mountain  heights  Is  a  marvel  of  enduring  freshness  and 
[232] 


IN    K  U  L  M  A  K  A  N 

ardour.  All  round  one  gets  a  vivid  illusion  of  Spring. 
The  soft  breezes  caressing  the  pines  shake  from  their 
boughs  the  only  evidence  of  last  night's  storm.  And 
these  are  more  like  the  dev/  of  Summer  than  the  lees 
of  the  copious  tears  of  parting  Autumn.  A  glorious 
morning,  too  glorious  to  be  enjoyed  by  a  solitary  soul. 
But  near  the  rivulet  yonder  stands  a  fox  sniffing  the 
morning  air.  Welcome,  my  friend.  Welcome  to  my 
coifee,  too. 

"  I  gather  my  mulberry  sticks,  kindle  them  with  a 
handful  of  dried  pine  needles,  roast  my  coffee  beans, 
and  grind  them  while  the  water  boils  in  the  pot.  In 
half  an  hour  I  am  qualified  to  go  about  my  business. 
The  cups  and  coffee  utensils  I  wash  and  restore  to 
the  chest  —  and  what  else  have  I  to  do  to-day?  Pack 
up?  Allah  be  praised,  I  have  little  packing  to  do. 
I  would  pack  up,  if  I  could,  a  ton  of  the  pine  air  and 
the  forest  perfume,  a  strip  of  this  limpid  sky,  and  a 
cluster  of  those  stars.  Never  at  such  an  hour  and 
in  this  season  of  the  year  did  I  enjoy  such  transport- 
ing limpidity  in  the  atmosphere  and  such  reassuring 
expansivencss  on  the  horizon.  Why,  even  the  stars, 
the  constellations,  and  the  planets,  are  all  here  to  en- 
joy this  with  me.  Not  one  of  them,  I  think,  is 
absent. 

"  The  mountains  are  lost  in  the  heavens.  They  are 
seeking,  as  it  were,  the  sisters  of  the  little  flowers 
sleeping  at  their  feet.  The  moon,  resembling  a 
crushed  orange,  is  sinking  in  the  Mediterranean. 
The  outlines  of  earth  and  sky  all  round  are  vague,  in- 
distinct. Were  not  the  sky  so  clear  and  the  atmos- 
[233] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

phere  so  rare,  thus  affording  the  planets  and  the  con- 
stellations to  shed  their  modicum  of  light,  the  dusk  of 
this  hour  would  have  deprived  the  scene  of  much  of 
its  pensive  beauty  of  colour  and  shade.  But  there  is 
Pegasus,  Andromeda,  Aldebaran,  not  to  mention 
Venus  and  Jupiter  and  Saturn, —  these  alone  can  con- 
quer the  right  wing  of  darkness.  And  there  is  Mer- 
cury, like  a  lighted  cresset  shaken  by  the  winds, 
flapping  his  violet  wings  above  the  Northeastern  hori- 
zon; and  Mars,  like  a  piece  of  gold  held  out  by 
the  trembling  hand  of  a  miser,  is  sinking  in  the  blue 
of  the  sea  with  Neptune;  the  Pleiades  are  stepping 
on  the  trail  of  the  blushing  moon ;  the  Balance  lingers 
behind  to  weigh  the  destinies  of  the  heroes  who  are 
to  contend  with  the  dawn ;  while  Venus,  peeping  from 
her  tower  over  Mt.  Sanneen,  is  sending  love  vibra- 
tions to  all.  I  would  tell  thee  more  if  I  knew.  But 
I  swear  to  thee  I  never  read  through  the  hornbook  of 
the  heavens.  But  if  I  can  not  name  and  locate  more 
of  the  stars,  I  can  tell  thee  this  about  them  all:  they 
are  the  embers  of  certainty  eternally  glowing  in  the 
ashes  of  doubt. 

"  The  Eastern  horizon  is  yiet  lost  in  the  dusk ;  the 
false  dawn  is  spreading  the  figments  of  its  illusion; 
the  trees  in  the  distance  seem  like  rain-clouds;  and 
the  amorphous  shadows  of  the  monasteries  on  the 
mountain  heights  and  hilltops  all  around,  have  not 
yet  developed  into  silhouettes.  Everything,  except 
the  river  in  the  wadi  below,  is  yet  asleep.  Not  even 
the  swallows  are  astir.  Ah,  but  my  neighbour  yonder 
is;  the  light  in  the  loophole  of  his  hut  sends  a  strug- 
[234] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

gling  ray  through  the  mulberries,  and  the  tintinnabu- 
lations of  his  daughter's  loom  are  like  so  many  stones 
thrown  into  this  sleeping  pond  of  silence.  The  loom- 
girl  in  these  parts  is  never  too  early  at  her  harness 
and  shuttle.  I  know  a  family  here  whose  loom  and 
spinning  wheel  are  never  idle:  the  wife  works  at  the 
loom  in  the  day  and  her  boy  at  the  wheel;  while  in 
the  night,  her  husband  and  his  old  mother  keep  up 
the  game.  And  this  hardly  secures  for  them  their 
flour  and  lentils  the  year  round.  But  I  concern  not 
myself  now  with  questions  of  economy. 

"  There,  another  of  my  neighbours  Is  awake ;  and 
the  hinges  of  his  door,  shrieking  terribly,  fiendishly, 
startle  the  swallows  from  their  sleep.  And  here  are 
the  muleteers,  yodling,  as  they  pass  by,  their 

'  Dhome,  Dhome,   Dhome, 
O  mother,  he  is  come ; 
Hide  me,  hide  me  quickly. 
And  say  I  am  not  home.' 

"  Lo,  the  horizon  is  disentangling  Itself  from  the 
meshes  of  darkness.  The  dust  of  haze  and  dusk  on 
the  scalloped  edges  of  the  mountains,  Is  blown  away 
by  the  first  breath  of  dawn.  The  lighter  grey  of  the 
horizon  is  mirrored  in  the  clearer  blue  of  the  sea. 
But  the  darkness  seems  to  gather  on  the  breast  of  the 
sloping  hills.  Conquered  on  the  heights,  It  retreats 
Into  the  wadi.  Ay,  the  darkest  hour  Is  nearest  the 
dawn. 

"  Now  the  light  grey  Is  become  a  lavender ;  the  out- 
lines of  earth  and  sky  are  become  more  distinct; 
[235] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALIO 

the  mountain  peaks,  the  dusky  veil  being  rent,  are 
separating  themselves  from  the  heaven's  embrace;  the 
trees  in  the  distance  no  longer  seem  like  rain-clouds; 
and  the  silhouettes  of  the  monasteries  are  casting  ofE 
the  cloak  of  night.  The  lavender  is  melting  now  into 
heliotrope,  and  the  heliotrope  is  bursting  here  and 
there  in  pink;  the  stars  are  waning,  the  constellations 
are  dying  out,  and  the  planets  are  following  in  their 
wake.  The  darkness,  too,  which  has  not  yet  retreated 
from  the  wadi,  must  soon  follow;  for  the  front  guard 
of  the  dawn  is  near.  Behold  the  shimmer  of  their 
steel!  And  see,  in  the  dust  of  the  retreating  dark- 
ness, the  ochre  veins  of  the  lime  cliffs  are  now  per- 
ceptible. And  that  huge  pillar,  which  looked  like 
the  standard-bearer  of  Night,  is  transformed  into  a 
belfry;  and  a  monk  can  be  seen  peeping  through  the 
ogive  beneath  it.  Mt.  Sanneen,  its  black  and  ochre 
scales  thrown  in  relief  on  a  coat  of  grey,  is  like  a 
huge  panther  sleeping  over  the  many-throated  ravine 
of  Kisrawan.  Ah,  the  pink  flower  of  dawn  is  burst- 
ing in  golden  glory,  thrilling  in  orange  and  saffron, 
flaming  with  the  ardency  of  love  and  hope.  The 
dawn!  The  glow  and  glamour  of  the  Eastern 
dawn!     .     .     . 

"  The  dawn  of  a  new  life,  of  a  better,  purer, 
healthier,  higher  spiritual  kingdom.  I  would  have  its 
temples  and  those  of  the  vast  empire  of  wealth  and 
material  well-being,  stand  side  by  side.  Ay,  I  would 
even  rear  an  altar  to  the  Soul  in  the  temple  of  Ma- 
terialism, and  an  altar  to  Materialism  in  the  temple 
[236] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

of  the  Soul.  Each  shall  have  its  due,  each  shall  glory 
in  the  sacred  purity  and  strength  of  life;  each  shall 
develop  and  expand,  but  never  at  the  expense  of  the 
other.  I  will  have  neither  the  renunciation  which 
ends  in  a  kind  of  idiocy  dignified  with  a  philosophic 
or  a  theologic  name,  nor  the  worldliness  which  ends 
in  bestiality.  I  am  a  citizen  of  two  worlds  —  a  citi- 
zen of  the  Universe;  I  owe  allegiance  to  two  king- 
doms. In  my  heart  are  those  stars  and  that  sun,  and 
the  LIGHT  of  those  stars  and  that  sun. 

"  Yes,  I  am  equally  devoted  both  to  the  material 
and  the  spiritual.  And  when  the  two  in  me  are  op- 
posed to  each  other,  conflicting,  inimical,  obdurate, 
my  attitude  towards  them  is  neither  that  of  my  friend 
the  Hermit  nor  that  of  my  European  superman.  I 
sit  down,  shut  my  eyes,  compose  myself,  and  concen- 
trate my  mind  on  the  mobility  of  things.  If  the 
clouds  are  moving,  why,  I  have  but  to  sit  down  and 
let  them  move  away.  I  let  my  No-will,  in  this 
case,  dominate  my  will,  and  that  serves  my  purpose 
well.  To  be  sure,  every  question  tormenting  us 
would  resolve  itself  favourably,  or  at  least  in- 
differently, if  we  did  not  always  rush  in,  wildly, 
madly,  and  arrogate  to  ourselves  such  claims  of  au- 
thority and  knowledge  as  would  make  Olympus 
shake  with  laughter.  The  resignation  and  passive- 
ness  of  the  spirit  should  always  alternate  equitably 
with  the  terrible  strivings  of  the  will.  For  the  der- 
vish who  whirls  himself  into  a  foaming  ecstasy  of  de- 
votion and  the  strenuous  American  who  works  him- 
self up  to  a  sweating  ecstasy  of  gain,  are  the  two  poles 
[237] 


TPIE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

of  the  same  absurdity,  the  two  ends  of  one  evil.  In- 
deed, to  my  way  of  thinking,  the  man  on  the  Stock 
Exchange  and  the  demagogue  on  the  stump,  for  in- 
stance, are  brothers  to  the  blatant  corybant." 


[238] 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  SELF  ECSTATIC 

npO  graft  the  strenuoslty  of  Europe  and  America 
upon  the  ease  of  the  Orient,  the  materialism  of 
the  West  upon  the  spirituality  of  the  East, —  this  to 
us  seems  to  be  the  principal  aim  of  Khalid.  But 
often  in  his  wanderings  and  divagations  of  thought 
does  he  give  us  fresh  proof  of  the  truism  that  no  two 
opposing  elements  meet  and  fuse  without  both  losing 
their  original  identity.  You  may  place  the  bit  of  con- 
tentment in  the  mouth  of  ambition,  so  to  speak,  and 
jog  along  in  your  sterile  course  between  the  vast 
wheat  fields  groaning  under  the  thousand-toothed 
plough  and  the  gardens  of  delight  swooning  with  de- 
votion and  sensuality.  But  cross  ambition  with  con- 
tentment and  you  get  the  hinny  of  indifference  or  the 
monster  of  fatalism.  We  do  not  say  that  indifference 
at  certain  passes  of  life,  and  certain  stages,  is  not 
healthy,  and  fatalism  not  powerful;  but  both  we  be- 
lieve are  factors  as  potent  in  commerce  and  trade  as 
pertinacity  and  calculation.  "  But  is  there  not  room  in 
the  garden  of  delight  for  a  wheat  field?  "  asks  Khalid. 
"  Can  we  not  apply  the  bow  to  the  telegraph  wires  of 
the  world  and  make  them  the  vehicle  of  music  as  of 
stock  quotations?  Can  we  not  simplify  life  as  we 
are  simplifying  the  machinery  of  industry?  Can  we 
[239] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

not  consecrate  its  Temple  to  the  Trinity  of  Devo- 
tion, Art,  and  Work,  or  Religion,  Romance,  and 
Trade?" 

This  seems  to  be  the  gist  of  Khalid's  gospel.  This, 
through  the  labyrinths  of  doubt  and  contradiction,  is 
the  pinnacle  of  faith  he  would  reach.  And  often  in 
this  labyrinthic  gloom,  where  a  gleam  of  light  from 
some  recess  of  thought  or  fancy  reveals  here  a  Hermit 
in  his  cloister,  there  an  Artist  in  his  studio,  below  a 
Nawab  in  his  orgies,  above  a  Broker  on  the  Stock  Ex- 
change, we  have  paused  to  ask  a  question  about  these 
glaring  contrarieties  in  his  life  and  thought.  And 
always  would  he  make  this  reply:  "  I  have  frequently 
moved  and  removed  between  extremes;  I  have  often 
worked  and  slept  in  opposing  camps.  So,  do  not  ex- 
pect from  me  anything  like  the  consistency  with  which 
the  majority  of  mankind  solder  and  shape  their  life. 
Deep  thought  seems  often,  if  not  always,  inconsistent 
at  the  first  blush.  The  intensity  and  passiveness  of 
the  spirit  are  as  natural  in  their  attraction  and  re- 
pulsion as  the  elements,  whose  harmony  is  only  patent 
on  the  surface.  Consistency  is  superficial,  narrow, 
one-sided.  I  am  both  ambitious,  therefore,  and  con- 
tented. My  ambition  is  that  of  the  earth,  the  ever 
producing  and  resuscitating  earth,  doing  the  will  of 
God,  combatting  the  rasure  of  time;  and  my  con- 
tentment is  that  of  the  majestic  pines,  faring  alike  in 
shade  and  sunshine,  in  calm  and  storm,  in  winter  as 
in  spring.  Ambition  and  Contentment  are  the  night 
and  day  of  my  life-journey.  The  day  makes  room 
for  the  fruits  of  solacement  which  the  night  brings; 
[240] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

and  the  night  gives  a  cup  of  the  cordial  of  content- 
ment to  make  good  the  promise  of  day  to  day. 

"  Ay,  while  sweating  in  the  tortuous  path,  I  never 
cease  to  cherish  the  feeling  in  which  I  was  nourished ; 
the  West  for  me  means  ambition,  the  East,  content- 
ment: my  heart  is  ever  in  the  one,  my  soul,  in  the 
other.  And  I  care  not  for  the  freedom  which  does 
not  free  both;  I  seek  not  the  welfare  of  the  one  with- 
out the  other.  But  unlike  my  Phoenician  ancestors, 
the  spiritual  with  me  shall  not  be  limited  by  the 
natural;  it  shall  go  far  above  it,  beyond  or  below  it, 
saturating,  sustaining,  purifying  what  in  external  na- 
ture is  but  a  symbol  of  the  invisible.  Nor  is  my  idea 
of  the  spiritual  developed  in  opposition  to  nature,  and 
in  a  manner  inimical  to  its  laws  and  claims,  as  in 
Judaism  and  Christianity. 

"  The  spiritual  and  natural  are  so  united,  so  inex- 
tricably entwined  around  each  other,  that  I  can  not 
conceive  of  them  separately,  independently.  And 
both  in  the  abstract  sense  are  purportless  and  ineffec- 
tual without  Consciousness.  They  are  blind,  dumb 
forces,  beautiful,  barbaric  pageants,  careering  without 
aim  or  design  through  the  immensities  of  No-where 
and  No-time,  if  they  are  not  impregnated  and 
nourished  with  Thought,  that  is  to  say,  with  Con- 
sciousness, vitalised  and  purified.  You  may  impreg- 
nate them  with  philosophy,  nourish  them  with  art; 
they  both  emanate  from  them,  and  remain  as  skidding 
clouds,  as  shining  mirages,  as  wandering  dust,  until 
they  find  their  exponent  in  Man. 

"  I  tell  thee  then  that  Man,  that  is  to  say  Conscious- 
[241] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

ness,  vitalised  and  purified,  in  other  words  Thought 
—  that  alone  is  real  and  eternal.  And  Man  is  su- 
preme, only  when  he  is  the  proper  exponent  of  Nature, 
and  spirit,  and  God:  the  three  divine  sources  from 
which  he  issues,  in  which  he  Is  sustained,  and  to 
which  he  must  return.  Nature  and  the  spiritual, 
without  this  embodied  intelligence,  this  somatic  be- 
ing, called  man  or  angel  or  ape,  are  as  ermine  on  a 
wax  figure.  The  human  factor,  the  exponent  intelli- 
gence, the  intellective  and  sensuous  faculties,  these, 
my  Brothers,  are  whole,  sublime,  holy,  only  when,  in 
a  state  of  continuous  expansion,  the  harmony  among 
themselves  and  the  affinitative  ties  between  them  and 
Nature,  are  perfect  and  pure.  No,  the  spiritual  ought 
not  and  can  not  be  free  from  the  sensuous,  even  the 
sensual.  The  true  life,  the  full  life,  the  life,  pure, 
robust,  sublime,  is  that  in  which  all  the  nobler  and 
higher  aspirations  of  the  soul  AND  THE  BODY  are 
given  free  and  unlimited  scope,  with  the  view  of  de- 
veloping the  divine  strain  in  Man,  and  realising  to 
some  extent  the  romantic  as  well  as  the  material 
hopes  of  the  race.  God,  Nature,  Spirit,  Passion  — 
Passion,  Spirit,  Nature,  God  —  in  some  such  pano- 
rama would  I  paint  the  life  of  a  highly  developed  be- 
ing. Any  of  these  elements  lacking,  and  the  life  is 
wanting,  defective,  impure. 

"  I  have  no  faith  in  men  who  were  conceived  in  a 
perfunctory  manner,  on  a  pragmatical  system,  so  to 
speak;  the  wife  receiving  her  husband  in  bed  as  she 
would  a  tedious  guest  at  an  afternoon  tea.  Only  two 
flames  uniting  produce  a  third;  but  a  flame  and  a 
[242] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

name,  or  a  flame  and  a  spunge,  produce  a  hiff  and 
nothing.  Oh,  that  the  children  of  the  race  are  all 
born  phoenix-like  in  the  fire  of  noble  and  sacred 
passion,  in  the  purgatorjs  as  It  were,  of  Love.  What 
a  race,  what  a  race  we  should  have.  What  men,  what 
women !  Yes,  that  Is  how  the  children  of  the  earth 
should  be  conceived,  not  on  a  pragmatical  system,  in 
an  I-don't-care-about-the-issue  manner.  I  believe  In 
evoking  the  spirit,  in  dreaming  a  little  about  the  gods 
of  Olympus,  and  a  little,  too,  about  the  gods  of  the 
abysmal  depths,  before  the  bodily  communion.  And 
in  earnest,  O  my  Brother,  let  us  do  this,  despite 
what  old  Socrates  says  about  the  propriety  and  wis- 
dom of  approaching  your  wife  with  prudence  and 
gravity.     ..." 

And  thus,  if  we  did  not  often  halloo,  Khalid,  like 
a  huntsman  pursuing  his  game,  would  lose  himself  in 
the  pathless,  lugubrious  damp  of  the  forest.  If  we 
did  not  prevent  him  at  times,  holding  firmly  to  his 
coat-tail,  he  would  desperately  pursue  the  ghost  of 
his  thoughts  even  on  such  precipitous  paths  to  those 
very  depths  in  which  Socrates  and  Montaigne  always 
felt  at  home.  But  he,  a  feverish,  clamorous,  ob- 
streperous stripling  of  a  Beduin,  what  chance  has  he 
in  extricating  his  barbaric  instincts  from  such  thorny 
hedges  of  philosophy?  And  had  he  not  quoted  Soc- 
rates in  that  last  paragraph,  it  would  have  been  ex- 
punged. No,  we  are  not  utterly  lost  to  the  fine  sense 
of  propriety  of  this  chaste  and  demure  age.  But  no 
matter  how  etiolated  and  sickly  the  thought,  it  regains 
its  colour  and  health  when  it  breathes  the  literary  air. 
[243] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

Prudery  can  not  but  relish  the  tang  of  lubricity  when 
flavoured  with  the  classical.  Moreover,  if  Socrates 
and  Montaigne  speak  freely  of  these  midnight  mat- 
ters, why  not  Khalid,  if  he  has  anything  new  to  say, 
any  good  advice  to  offer.  But  how  good  and  how 
new  are  his  views  let  the  Reader  judge. 

'Tis  very  well  to  speak  "  of  evoking  the  spirit  be- 
fore the  bodily  communion,"  but  those  who  can  boast 
of  a  deeper  experience  in  such  matters  will  find  in 
Socrates'  dictum,  quoted  by  Montaigne,  the  very  gist 
of  reason  and  wisdom.  Those  wise  ones  were  as 
far-sighted  as  they  were  far  gone.  And  moderation, 
as  It  was  justly  said  once,  Is  the  respiration  of  the 
philosopher.  But  Khalid,  though  always  invoking  the 
distant  luminary  of  transcendentalism  for  light,  can 
not  arrogate  to  himself  this  high  title.  The  expan- 
sion of  all  the  faculties,  and  the  reduction  of  the  de- 
mands of  society  and  the  individual  to  the  lowest 
term ;  —  this,  as  we  understand  it,  is  the  aim  of  tran- 
scendentalism. And  Khalid's  distance  from  the  orbit 
of  this  grand  luminary  seems  to  vary  with  his  moods; 
and  these  vary  with  the  librations  and  revolutions  of 
the  moon.  Hallucinated,  moonstruck  Khalid,  your 
harmonising  and  aflinitative  efforts  do  not  always 
succeed.  That  Is  our  opinion  of  the  matter.  And 
the  Reader,  who  is  no  respecter  of  editors,  might  quar- 
rel with  it,  for  all  we  know. 

Only  by  standing  firmly  In  the  centre  can  one  pre- 
serve the  equilibrium  of  one's  thoughts.  But  Kha- 
lid seldom  speaks  of  equilibrium:  he  cares  not  how  he 
fares  in  falling  on  either  side  of  the  fence,  so  he  knows 
[244] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

what  lies  behind.  Howbeit,  we  can  not  conceive  of  how 
the  affinity  of  the  mind  and  soul  with  the  senses,  and 
the  harmony  between  these  and  nature,  are  possible, 
if  not  exteriorised  in  that  very  superman  whom  Kha- 
lid  so  much  dreads,  and  on  whom  he  often  casts  a 
lingering  glance  of  admiration.  So  there  you  are. 
We  must  either  rise  to  a  higher  consciousness  on  the 
ruins  of  a  lower  one,  of  no-consciousness,  rather,  or 
go  on  seeming  and  simulating,  aspiring,  perspiring, 
and  suffering,  until  our  turn  comes.  Death  denies  no 
one.  Meanwhile,  Khalid's  rhapsodies  on  his  way 
back  to  the  city,  we  shall  heed  and  try  to  echo. 

"  On  the  high  road  of  the  universal  spirit,"  he 
sings,  "  the  world,  the  whole  world  before  me,  thrill- 
ing and  radiating,  chanting  of  freedom,  faith,  hope, 
health  and  power,  and  joy.  Back  to  the  City,  O 
Khalid, —  the  City  where  Truth,  and  Faith,  and 
Honesty,  and  Wisdom,  are  ever  suffering,  ever 
struggling,  ever  triumphing.  No,  it  matters  not  with 
me  if  the  spirit  of  intelligence  and  power,  of  freedom 
and  culture,  which  must  go  the  rounds  of  the  earth, 
is  always  dominated  by  the  instinct  of  self-interest. 
That  must  be;  that  is  inevitable.  But  the  instinct  of 
self-interest,  O  my  Brother,  goes  with  the  flesh;  the 
body-politic  dies;  nations  rise  and  fall;  and  the  eter- 
nal Spirit,  the  progenitor  of  all  ideals,  passes  to  bet- 
ter or  worse  hands,  still  chastening  and  strengthen- 
ing itself  in  the  process. 

"  The  Orient  and  Occident,  the  male  and  female  of 
the  Spirit,  the  two  great  streams  in  which  the  body 
[245] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

and  soul  of  man  are  refreshed,  invigorated,  purified  — 
of  both  I  sing,  in  both  I  glory,  to  both  I  consecrate 
my  life,  for  both  I  shall  work  and  suffer  and  die. 
My  Brothers,  the  most  highly  developed  being  is 
neither  European  nor  Oriental;  but  rather  he  who 
partakes  of  the  finer  qualities  of  both  the  European 
genius  and  the  Asiatic  prophet. 

"  Give  me,  ye  mighty  nations  of  the  West,  the 
material  comforts  of  life;  and  thou,  my  East,  let  me 
partake  of  thy  spiritual  heritage.  Give  me,  America, 
thy  hand;  and  thou,  too,  Asia.  Thou  land  of  origi- 
nation, where  Light  and  Spirit  first  arose,  disdain  not 
the  gifts  which  the  nations  of  the  West  bring  thee; 
and  thou  land  of  organisation  and  power,  where  Sci- 
ence and  Freedom  reign  supreme,  disdain  not  the 
bounties  of  the  sunrise. 

"  If  the  discoveries  and  attainments  of  Science  will 
make  the  body  of  man  cleaner,  healthier,  stronger, 
happier,  the  inexhaustible  Oriental  source  of  romantic 
and  spiritual  beauty  will  never  cease  to  give  the  soul 
of  man  the  restfulness  and  solacement  it  is  ever  crav- 
ing. And  remember,  Europa,  remember,  Asia,  that 
foreign  culture  is  as  necessary  to  the  spirit  of  a  nation 
as  is  foreign  commerce  to  its  industries.  Elsewise, 
thy  materialism,  Europa,  or  thy  spiritualism,  Asia,  no 
matter  how  trenchant  and  impregnable,  no  matter 
how  deep  the  foundation,  how  broad  the  superstruc- 
ture thereof,  is  vulgar,  narrow,  mean  —  is  nothing,  in 
a  word,  but  parochialism. 

"  I  swear  that  neither  religious  nor  industrial  slav- 
[246] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

ery  shall  forever  hold  the  world  in  political  servitude. 
No;  the  world  shall  be  free  of  the  authority,  abso- 
lute, blind,  tyrannical,  of  both  the  Captains  of  Indus- 
try and  the  High  Priests  of  the  Temple.  And  who 
shall  help  to  free  it?  Science  alone  can  not  do  it; 
Science  and  Faith  must  do  it. 

"  I  say  with  thee,  O  Goethe,  *  Light,  more  light ! ' 
I  say  with  thee,  O  Tolstoi,  'Love,  more  love!'  I 
say  with  thee,  O  Ibsen,  '  Will,  more  will ! '  Light, 
Love,  and  Will  —  the  one  is  as  necessary  as  the 
other;  the  one  is  dangerous  without  the  others. 
Light,  Love,  and  Will,  are  the  three  eternal,  vital 
sources  of  the  higher,  truer,  purer  cosmic  life. 

"  Light,  Love,  and  Will  —  with  corals  and  pearls 
from  their  seas  would  I  crown  thee,  O  my  City.  In 
these  streams  would  I  baptise  thy  children,  O  my 
City.  The  mind,  and  the  heart,  and  the  soul  of  man 
I  would  baptise  in  this  mountain  lake,  this  high  Jor- 
dan of  Truth,  on  the  flourishing  and  odoriferous 
banks  of  Science  and  Religion,  under  the  sacred  sidr 
of  Reason  and  Faith. 

"  Ay,  in  the  Lakes  of  Light,  Love,  and  Will,  I 
would  baptise  all  mankind.  For  in  this  alone  is 
power  and  glory,  O  my  European  Brothers;  in  this 
alone  is  faith  and  joy,  O  my  Brothers  of  Asia. 

"  The  Hudson,  the  Mississippi,  the  Amazon,  the 
Thames,  the  Seine,  the  Rhine,  the  Danube,  the  Eu- 
phrates, the  Ganges  —  every  one  of  these  great 
streams  shall  be  such  a  Jordan  in  the  future.  In 
every  one  of  them  shall  flow  the  confluent  Rivers  of 
[247] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

Light,  Love,  and  Will.  In  every  one  of  them  shall 
sail  the  barks  of  the  higher  aspirations  and  hopes  of 
mankind. 

"  I  come  now  to  be  baptised,  O  my  City.  I  come 
to  slake  my  thirst  in  thy  Jordan.  I  come  to  launch 
my  little  skiff,  to  do  my  little  work,  to  pay  my  little 
debt. 

"  In  thy  public-squares,  O  my  City,  I  would  raise 
monuments  to  Nature;  in  thy  theatres  to  Poesy  and 
Thought;  in  thy  bazaars  to  Art;  in  thy  homes,  to 
Health ;  in  thy  temples  of  worship,  to  universal  Good- 
will; in  thy  courts,  to  Power  and  Mercy;  in  thy 
schools,  to  Simplicity;  in  thy  hospitals,  to  Faith;  and 
in  thy  public-halls  to  Freedom  and  Culture.  And  all 
these,  without  Light,  Love,  and  Will,  are  but  hollow 
affairs,  high-sounding  inanities.  Without  Light, 
Love,  and  Will,  even  thy  Nabobs  in  the  end  shall 
curse  thee;  and  with  these,  thy  hammals  under  their 
burdens  shall  thank  the  heavens  under  which  thy 
domes  and  turrets  and  minarets  arise." 


[248] 


CHAPTER  IV 

ON  THE  OPEN  HIGHWAY 

AND  Khalid,  packing  his  few  worldly  belongings 
in  one  of  his  reed  baskets,  gives  the  rest  to  his 
neighbours,  leaves  his  booth  in  the  pines  to  the  swal- 
lows, and  bids  the  monks  and  his  friend  the  Hermit 
farewell.  The  joy  of  the  wayfaring!  Now,  where 
is  the  jubbah,  the  black  jubbah  of  coarse  wool,  which 
we  bought  from  one  of  the  monks?  He  wraps  him- 
self in  it,  tightens  well  his  shoe-strings,  draws  his  fur 
cap  over  his  ears,  carries  his  basket  on  his  back,  takes 
up  his  staff,  lights  his  cigarette,  and  resolutely  sets 
forth.  The  joy  of  the  wayfaring!  We  accompany 
him  on  the  open  highway,  through  the  rocky  wilder- 
ness, down  to  the  fertile  plains,  back  to  the  city. 
For  the  account  he  gives  us  of  his  journey  enables 
us  to  fill  up  the  lacuna  in  Shakib's  Histoire  Intime, 
before  we  can  have  recourse  to  it  again. 

"  From  the  cliffs  'neath  which  the  lily  blooms,"  he 
muses  as  he  issues  out  of  the  forest  and  reaches  the  top 
of  the  mountain,  "  to  the  cliffs  round  which  the  eagles 
flit, —  what  a  glorious  promontory!  What  a  contrast 
at  this  height,  in  this  immensity,  between  the  arid 
rocky  haunts  of  the  mountain  bear  and  eagle  and  the 
spreading,  vivifying  verdure  surrounding  the  haunts  of 
man.  On  one  side  are  the  sylvan  valleys,  the  thick 
[249] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID   . 

grown  ravines,  the  meandering  rivulets,  the  fertile 
plains,  the  silent  villages,  and  on  the  distant  horizon, 
the  sea,  rising  like  a  blue  wall,  standing  like  a  stage 
scene;  on  the  other,  a  howling  immensity  of  boulders 
and  prickly  shrubs  and  plants,  an  arid  wilderness  — 
the  haunt  of  the  eagle,  the  mountain  bear,  and  the 
goatherd.  One  step  in  this  direction,  and  the  entire 
panorama  of  verdant  hills  and  valleys  is  lost  to  view. 
Its  spreading,  riant  beauty  is  hidden  behind  that  little 
cliff.  I  penetrate  through  this  forest  of  rocks,  where 
the  brigands,  I  am  told,  lie  in  ambush  for  the  caravans 
traveling  between  the  valley  of  the  Leontes  and  the 
villages  of  the  lowland.  But  the  brigands  can  not 
harm  a  dervish;  my  penury  Is  my  amulet  —  my  salva- 
tion. 

"  The  horizon,  as  I  proceed,  shrinks  to  a  distance  of 
ten  minutes'  walk  across.  And  thus,  from  one  circle 
of  rocks  to  another,  I  pass  through  ten  of  them  before 
I  hear  again  the  friendly  voice  of  the  rill,  and  behold 
again  the  comforting  countenance  of  the  sylvan  slopes. 
I  reach  a  little  grove  of  slender  poplars,  under  the  brow 
of  a  little  hill,  from  which  issues  a  little  limpid  stream 
and  runs  gurgling  through  the  little  ferns  and  bushes 
down  the  heath.  I  swing  from  the  road  and  follow 
this  gentle  rill ;  I  can  not  find  a  better  companion  now. 
But  the  wanton  lures  me  to  a  village  far  from  the  road 
on  the  other  side  of  the  gorge.  Now,  I  must  either 
retrace  my  steps  to  get  to  It  by  a  long  detour,  or  cross 
the  gorge,  descending  to  the  deep  bottom  and  ascend- 
ing in  a  tangled  and  tortuous  path  to  reach  the  main 
road  on  the  breast  of  the  opposite  escarpment.  Here  Is 
[250] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

a  short-cut  which  is  long  and  weary.  It  lures  me  as 
the  stream;  it  cheats  me  with  a  name.  And  when  I 
am  again  on  the  open  road,  I  look  back  with  a  sigh  of 
relief  on  the  dangers  I  had  passed.  I  can  forgive  the 
luring  rill,  which  still  smiles  to  me  innocently  from 
afar,  but  not  the  deluding,  ensnaring  ravine.  The 
muleteer  who  saw  me  struggling  through  the  tangled 
bushes  up  the  pathless,  hopeless  steep,  assures  me  that 
my  mother  is  a  pious  woman,  else  I  would  have  slipped 
and  gone  into  an  hundred  pieces  among  the  rocks  be- 
low. '  Her  prayers  have  saved  thee,'  quoth  he ;  '  thank 
thy  God.' 

"  And  walking  together  a  pace,  he  points  to  the 
dizzy  precipice  around  which  I  climbed  and  adds: 
*  Thou  seest  that  rock?  I  hallooed  to  thee  when  thou 
wert  creeping  around  it,  but  thou  didst  not  hear  me. 
From  that  same  rock  a  woodman  fell  last  week,  and, 
falling,  looked  like  a  potted  bird.  He  must  have  died 
before  he  reached  the  ground.  His  bones  are  scat- 
tered among  those  rocks.  Thank  thy  God  and  thy 
mother.     Her  prayers  have  saved  thee.' 

"  My  dear  mother,  how  long  since  I  saw  thee,  how 
long  since  I  thought  of  thee.  My  loving  mother, 
even  the  rough,  rude  spirit  of  a  muleteer  can  see  in  the 
unseen  the  beauty  and  benevolence  of  such  devotion  as 
thine.  The  words  of  this  dusky  son  of  the  road,  com- 
ing as  through  the  trumpet  of  revelation  to  rebuke  me, 
sink  deep  in  my  heart  and  draw  tears  from  mine  eyes. 
For  art  thou  not  ever  praying  for  thy  grievous  son, 
and  for  his  salvation?  How  many  beads  each  night 
dost  thou  tell,  how  many  hours  dost  thou  prostrate 
i[25i] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

thyself  before  the  Virgin,  sobbing,  obsecrating,  beat- 
ing thy  breast  ?  And  all  for  one,  who  until  now,  ever 
since  he  left  Baalbek,  did  not  think  on  thee. —  Let  me 
kiss  thee,  O  my  Brother,  for  thy  mild  rebuke.  Let 
me  kiss  thee  for  reminding  me  of  my  mother. —  No, 
I  can  not  further  with  thee;  I  am  waygone;  I  must 
sit  me  a  spell  beneath  this  pine  —  and  weep.  O  Kha- 
lid,  wretched  that  thou  art,  can  the  primitive  soul  of 
this  muleteer  be  better  than  thine?  Can  there  be  a 
sounder  intuitiveness,  a  healthier  sense  of  love,  a 
grander  sympathy,  beneath  that  striped  aba,  than  there 
is  within  thy  cloak?  Wilt  thou  not  beat  thy  cheeks  in 
ignominy  and  shame,  when  a  stranger  thinks  of  thy 
mother,  and  reverently,  ere  thou  dost?  No  matter 
how  low  in  the  spiritual  circles  she  might  be,  no  mat- 
ter how  high  thou  risest,  her  prayer  and  her  love  are 
always  with  thee.  If  she  can  not  rise  to  thee  on  the 
ladder  of  reason,  she  can  soar  on  the  wings  of  affection. 
Yea,  I  prostrate  myself  beneath  this  pine,  bury  my  fore- 
head in  its  dust,  thanking  Allah  for  my  mother.  Oh, 
I  am  waygone,  but  joyous.  The  muleteer  hath  il- 
lumined thee,  O  Khalid. — 

"  There,  the  snow  birds  are  passing  by,  flitting  to 
the  lowland.  The  sky  is  overcast;  there  is  a  lull  in 
the  wind.  Hark,  I  hear  the  piping  of  the  shepherd 
and  the  tinkling  bell  of  the  wether.  Yonder  is  his 
flock;  and  there  sits  he  on  a  rock  blowing  his  doleful 
reed.  I  am  almost  slain  with  thirst.  I  go  to  him, 
and  cheerfully  does  he  milk  for  me.  I  do  not  think 
Rebekah  was  kinder  and  sweeter  in  Abraham's  servant's 
eyes  than  was  this  wight  in  mine.  '  Where  dost  thou 
[252] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

sleep?'  I  ask.  *  Under  this  rock/  he  replies.  And  he 
shows  me  into  the  cave  beneath  it,  which  is  furnished 
with  a  goat-skin,  a  masnad,  and  a  little  altar  for  the 
picture  of  the  Virgin.  Before  this  picture  is  an  oil 
lamp,  ever  burning,  I  am  told.  *  And  this  altar,'  quoth 
the  shepherd,  '  was  my  mother's.  When  she  died  she 
bequeathed  it  to  me.  I  carry  it  with  me  in  the  wilder- 
ness, and  keep  the  oil  burning  in  her  memory.'  Saying 
which  he  took  to  weeping.  Even  the  shepherd,  O  Kha- 
lid,  is  sent  to  rebuke  thee.  I  thank  him,  and  resume 
my  march. 

"  At  eventide,  descending  from  one  hilltop  to  an- 
other, I  reach  a  village  of  no  mean  size.  It  occupies 
a  broad  deep  steep,  in  which  the  walnut  and  poplar 
relieve  the  monotony  of  the  mulberries.  I  hate  the 
mulberry,  which  is  so  suggestive  of  worms;  and  I 
hate  worms,  and  though  they  be  of  the  silk-making 
kind.  I  hate  them  the  more,  because  the  Lebanon 
peasant  seems  to  live  for  the  silk-worms,  which 
he  tends  and  cultivates  better  than  he  does  his  chil- 
dren. 

"  When  I  stood  on  the  top  of  the  steep,  the  village 
glittering  with  a  thousand  lights  lay  beneath  like  a 
strip  of  the  sidereal  sky.  It  made  me  feel  I  was 
above  the  clouds,  even  above  the  stars.  The  gabled 
houses  overtopping  each  other,  spreading  in  clusters 
and  half-circles,  form  here  an  aigrette,  as  it  were,  on 
the  sylvan  head  of  the  mountain,  there  a  necklace  on 
its  breast,  below  a  cestus  brilliant  with  an  hundred 
lights.  I  descend  into  the  village  and  stop  before  the 
first  house  I  reach.  The  door  is  wide  open;  and  the 
[253] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

little  girl  who  sees  me  enter  runs  In  fright  to  tell  her 
mother.  Straightway,  the  woman  and  her  son,  a 
comely  and  lusty  youth,  come  out  in  a  where-is-the- 
brigand  manner,  and,  as  they  see  me,  stand  abashed, 
amazed.  The  young  man  who  wore  a  robe-de- 
chambre  and  Turkish  slippers  worked  in  gold,  returns 
my  salaam  courteously  and  invites  me  up  to  the  divan. 
There  is  a  spark  of  intelligence  in  his  eyes,  and  an 
alien  affectation  in  his  speech.  I  foresaw  that  he  had 
been  in  America.  He  does  not  ask  me  the  conven- 
tional questions  about  my  religious  persuasion;  but 
after  his  inquiries  of  whence  and  whither,  he  offers 
me  an  Egyptian  cigarette,  and  goes  in  to  order  the 
coffee.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  I  was  his  guest 
for  the  night. — 

"  Ah  me,  I  no  longer  know  how  to  recline  on  a 
cushion,  and  a  rug  under  my  feet  seems  like  a  sheet  of 
ice.  But  with  my  dust  and  mud  I  seem  like  Dioge- 
nes trampling  upon  Plato's  pride.  I  survey  the  hall, 
which  breathes  of  rural  culture  and  well-being,  and 
in  which  is  more  evidence  of  what  I  foresaw.  On  the 
wall  hung  various  photographs  and  oil  prints,  among 
which  I  noticed  those  of  the  King  and  Queen  of 
England,  that  of  Theodore  Roosevelt,  a  framed  car- 
toon by  an  American  artist,  an  autographed  copy  of 
an  English  Duke's,  and  a  large  photograph  of  a  ban- 
quet of  one  of  the  political  Clubs  of  New  York.  On 
the  table  were  a  few  Arabic  magazines,  a  post-card 
album,  and  a  gramophone!  Yes,  mine  host  was  more 
than  once  in  the  United  States.  And  knowing  that  I, 
too,  had  been  there,  he  is  anxious  to  display  some- 
[254] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

what  of  his  broken  English.  His  father,  he  tells  me, 
speaks  English  even  as  good  as  he  does,  having  been  a 
dragoman  for  forty  years. 

"  After  supper,  he  orders  me  a  narghilah,  and  winds 
for  my  entertainment  that  horrible  instrument  of  tor- 
ture. "  Khalid  did  not  seem  to  mind  it;  but  he  was 
anxious  about  the  sacred  peace  of  the  hills,  sleeping  in 
the  bosom  of  night.  My  Name  Is  Billy  Muggins,  I 
Wish  I  Had  a  Pal  Like  You,  Tickle  Me,  Timothy, 
and  such  like  ragtime  horrors  come  all  the  way  from 
America  to  violate  the  antique  grandeur  and  beauty 
of  the  Lebanon  hills.  That  is  what  worried  Khalid. 
And  he  excuses  himself,  saying,  "  I  am  waygone  from 
the  day's  wayfaring."  The  Instrument  of  torture  Is 
stopped,  therefore,  and  he  Is  shown  into  a  room  where 
a  mattress  Is  spread  for  him  on  the  floor. 

"  In  the  morning,"  he  continues,  "  mine  host  ac- 
companies me  through  the  populous  village,  which  is 
noted  for  its  Industries.  Of  all  the  Lebanon  towns, 
this  is,  indeed,  the  busiest;  its  looms.  Its  potteries,  and 
its  bell  foundries,  are  never  idle.  And  the  people 
cultivate  little  of  the  silk  worm;  they  are  mostly 
artisans.  American  cotton  they  spin,  and  dye,  and 
weave  into  substantial  cloth;  Belgian  iron  they  melt 
and  cast  Into  bells;  and  from  their  native  soil  they 
dig  the  clay  which  they  mould  Into  earthenware. 
The  tintinnabulations  of  the  loom  can  be  heard  In 
other  parts  of  the  Lebanons;  but  no  where  else  can 
the  vintner  buy  a  dolium  for  his  vine,  or  the  house- 
wife, a  pipkin  for  her  oil,  or  the  priest,  a  bell  for  his 
church.  The  sound  of  these  foundries'  anvils,  trans- 
[255] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

lated  into  a  wild,  thrilling,  far-reaching  music,  can  be 
heard  in  every  belfry  and  bell-cote  of  Syria. 

"  We  descend  to  the  potteries  below,  not  on  the 
carriage  road  which  serpentines  through  the  village, 
and  which  is  its  only  street,  but  sheer  down  a  steep 
path,  between  the  noise  of  the  loom  and  spinning 
wheel  and  the  stench  of  the  dyeing  establishments. 
And  here  is  the  real  potter  and  his  clay,  not  the  sym- 
bol thereof.  And  here  is  the  pottery  which  is  illus- 
trated in  the  Bible.  For  in  the  world  to-day,  if  we 
except  the  unglazed  tinajas  of  the  Pueblo  Indians, 
nothing,  above  ground  at  least,  can  be  more  ancient 
and  primitive.  Such  a  pitcher,  I  muse,  did  Rebekah 
carry  to  the  well;  with  such  a  Jar  on  her  shoulder 
did  Hagar  wander  in  the  wilderness;  and  in  such 
vessels  did  the  widow,  by  Elijah's  miracle,  multiply 
her  jug  of  oil. 

"  The  one  silk-reeling  factory  of  the  village,  I  did 
not  care  to  visit ;  for  truly  I  can  not  tolerate  the  smell 
of  asphyxiated  larvas  and  boiling  cocoons.  *  But  the 
proprietor,'  quoth  mine  host,  *  is  very  honourable,  and 
of  a  fine  wit.'  As  honourable  as  a  sweater  can  be,  I 
thought.  No,  no;  these  manufacturers  are  all  of  a 
piece.  I  know  personally  one  of  them,  who  is  a 
Scrooge,  and  of  the  vilest.  I  watched  him  one  day 
buying  cocoons  from  the  peasants.  He  does  not  trust 
any  of  his  employees  at  the  scales;  they  do  not  know 
how  to  press  their  hand  over  the  weights  in  the  pan. 
Ay,  that  little  pressure  of  his  chubby  hand  on  the 
weights  makes  a  difference  in  his  favour  of  more  than 
ten  per  cent,  of  what  he  buys.  That  little  pressure 
[256] 


IN     KULMAKAN 

of  his  hand  is  five  or  six  piasters  out  of  the  peasant's 
pocket,  who,  with  five  or  six  piasters,  remember,  can 
satisfy  his  hunger  on  bread  and  olives  and  pulverised 
thyme,  for  live  or  six  days.  So,  we  visit  not  the 
cocoon-man,  about  whom  the  priest  of  his  private 
chapel  —  he  prays  at  home  like  the  Lebanon  Amirs 
of  old,  this  khavvaja  —  tells  me  many  edifying  things. 
Of  these,  I  give  out  the  most  curious  and  least  in- 
jurious. As  the  sheikh  (squire)  of  the  town,  he  is 
generous;  as  the  operator  of  a  silk-reeling  factory,  he  is 
grasping,  niggardly,  mean.  For,  to  misgovern  well, 
one  must  open  his  purse  as  often  as  he  forces  the 
purses  of  others.  He  was  passing  by  in  his  carriage 
this  great  khawaja,  when  we  were  coming  out  of  the 
pottery.  And  of  a  truth,  his  paunch  and  double  chin 
and  ruddy  cheeks  seemed  to  illustrate  what  the  priest 
told  me  about  his  usurious  propensities. 

"  What  a  contrast  between  him  and  the  swarthy, 
leathery,  hungry-looking  potters.  I  can  not  think 
that  Nature  has  aught  to  do  with  these  naked  in- 
equalities. I  can  not  believe  that,  to  produce  one 
roseate  complexion,  she  must  etiolate  a  thousand.  I 
can  not  see  how,  in  drinking  from  the  same  gushing 
spring,  and  breathing  the  same  mountain  air,  and 
basking  in  the  same  ardent  sun,  the  khawaja  gets  a 
double  chin  and  the  peasant  a  double  curse.  But  his 
collops  and  his  ruddiness  are  due  to  the  fact  that  he 
misgoverns  as  well  as  his  Pasha  and  his  Sultan.  He 
battens,  even  like  a  Tammany  chief,  on  political  job- 
bery, on  extortion,  on  usury.  His  tree  is  better 
manured,  so  to  speak;  manured  by  the  widows  and 
[257] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

tended  bj^  the  orphans  of  his  little  kingdom.  In  a 
word,  this  great  khawaja  is  what  I  call  a  political 
coprophagist.  Hence,  his  suspicious  growth,  his  lustre 
and  lustiness. 

"  But  he  is  not  the  only  example  in  the  village  of 
this  superabundance  of  health;  the  priests  are  many 
more.  For  I  must  not  fail  to  mention  that,  in  addi- 
tion to  its  potteries  and  founderies,  the  town  is  blessed 
with  a  dozen  churches.  Every  family,  a  sort  of  tribe, 
has  its  church  and  priests;  and  consequently,  its  feuds 
with  all  the  others.  It  is  a  marvel  how  the  people, 
in  the  lethal  soot  and  smoke  of  strife  and  dissension, 
can  work  and  produce  anything.  Farewell,  ye 
swarthy  people!  Farewell,  O  village  of  bells  and  pot- 
teries! Were  it  not  for  the  khawaja  who  misgoverns 
thee,  and  the  priests  who  sow  their  iniquity  in  thee, 
thou  shouldst  have  been  an  ideal  town.  I  look  back, 
as  I  descend  into  the  wadi,  and  behold,  thou  art  as 
beautiful  in  the  day  as  thou  art  in  the  night.  Thy 
pink  gables  under  a  December  sky  seem  not  as  garish 
as  they  do  in  summer.  And  the  sylvan  slopes,  clus- 
tered with  thy  white-stone  homes,  peeping  here 
through  the  mulberries,  standing  there  under  the  wal- 
nuts and  poplars,  rising  yonder  in  a  group  like  a 
mottled  pyramid,  this  most  picturesque  slope,  whereon 
thou  art  ever  beating  the  anvil,  turning  the  wheel, 
throwing  the  shuttle,  moulding  the  clay,  and  welter- 
ing withal  in  the  mud  of  strife  and  dissension,  this 
beautiful  slope  seems,  nevertheless,  from  this  distance, 
like  an  altar  raised  to  Nature.  I  look  not  upon  thee 
more;  farewell. 

.      [258] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

"  I  descend  In  the  wadi  to  the  River  Lykos  of  the 
ancients;  and  crossing  the  stone-bridge,  an  hour's 
ascent  brings  me  to  one  of  the  villages  of  Kisrawan. 
On  the  grey  horizon  yonder,  is  the  limed  bronze 
Statue  of  Mary  the  Virgin,  rising  on  its  sable  pedes- 
tal, and  looking,  from  this  distance,  like  a  candle  in  a 
bronze  candle-stick.  That  Statue,  fifty  years  hence, 
the  people  of  the  Lebanons  will  rebaptise  as  the  Statue 
of  Liberty.  Masonry,  even  to-day,  raises  around  it 
her  mace.  But  whether  these  sacred  mountains  will 
be  happier  and  more  prosperous  under  its  regime,  I 
can  not  say.  The  Masons  and  the  Patriarch  of  the 
Maronites  are  certainly  more  certain.  Only  this  I 
know,  that  between  the  devil  and  the  deep  sea,  Mary 
the  Virgin  shall  hold  her  own.  For  though  the 
name  be  changed,  and  the  aim-box  thrown  into  the 
sea,  she  shall  ever  be  worshipped  by  the  people.  The 
Statue  of  the  Holy  Virgin  of  Liberty  it  will  be  called, 
and  the  Jesuits  and  priests  can  go  a-begging.  Mean- 
while, the  Patriarch  will  issue  his  allocutions,  and  the 
Jesuits,  their  pamphlets,  against  rationalism,  atheism, 
masonry,  and  other  supposed  enemies  of  their  Blessed 
Virgin,  and  point  them  out  as  enemies  of  Abd'ul- 
Hamid.  'Tis  curious  how  the  Sultan  of  the  Ottomans 
can  serve  the  cause  of  the  Virgin ! 

"  I  visit  the  Statue  for  the  love  of  my  mother,  and 
mounting  to  the  top  of  the  pedestal,  I  look  up  and 
behold  my  mother  before  me.  The  spectre  of  her, 
standing  before  the  monument,  looks  down  upon  me, 
reproachfully,  piteously,  affectionately.  I  sit  down 
at  the  feet  of  the  Virgin  Mary  and  bury  my  face  in 
[259] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

my  hands  and  weep.  I  love  what  thou  lovest,  O  my 
mother,  but  I  can  see  no  more  what  thou  seest.  For 
thy  love,  O  my  mother,  these  kisses  and  tears.  For 
thy  love,  I  stand  here  like  a  child,  and  look  up  to  this 
inanimate  figure  as  I  did  when  I  was  an  acolyte. 
My  intellect,  O  my  mother,  I  would  drown  in  my 
tears,  and  thy  faith  I  would  stifle  with  my  kisses. 
Only  thus  is  reconciliation  possible. 

"  Leaving  this  throne  of  modern  mythology,  I  cross 
many  wadis,  descend  and  ascend  many  hills,  pass 
through  many  villages,  until  I  reach,  at  China  and 
Masshnaka,  the  tomb  of  the  mythology  of  the  ancients. 
At  China  are  ruins  and  monuments,  of  which  Time 
has  spared  enough  to  engage  the  interest  of  archaeolo- 
gists. Let  the  Peres  Jesuit,  Bourquenoud  and  Roz, 
make  boast  of  their  discoveries  and  scholarship ;  I  can 
only  boast  of  the  fact  that  the  ceremonialisms  of  wor- 
ship are  the  same  to-day  as  they  were  in  the  days  of 
my  Phoenician  ancestors.  Which,  indeed,  speaks  well 
for  THEM.  This  tablet,  representing  an  armed 
figure  and  a  bear,  commemorates,  it  is  said,  the  death 
of  Tammuz.  And  the  figure  of  the  weeping  woman 
near  it  is  probably  that  of  Ashtaroth.  Other  figures 
there  are;  but  nothing  short  of  the  scholarship  of 
Bourquenoud  and  Roz  can  unveil  their  marble 
mystery. 

"  At  Masshnaka,  overlooking  the  River  Adonis,  are 
ruins  of  an  ancient  temple  in  which  can  still  be  seen  a 
few  Corinthian  columns.  This,  too,  we  are  told,  was 
consecrated  to  Tammuz ;  and  in  this  valley  the  women 
of  Byblus  bemoaned  every  year  the  fate  of  their  god. 
[260] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

Isis  and  Osiris,  Tammuz  and  Ashtaroth,  Venus  and 
Adonis, —  these,  I  believe,  are  one  and  the  same. 
Their  myth  borrowed  from  the  Phoenicians,  the  Egyp- 
tians, and  the  Romans,  from  either  of  the  two.  But 
the  Venus  of  Rome  is  cheerful,  joyous,  that  of  the 
Phoenicians  is  sad  and  sorrowful.  Even  mythology 
triumphs  in  its  evolution. 

"  Here,  where  my  forebears  deliquesced  in  sensu- 
ality, devotion,  and  grief,  where  the  ardency  of  the 
women  of  Byblus  flamed  on  the  altar  of  Tammuz,  on 
this  knoll,  whose  trees  and  herbiage  are  fed  perchance 
with  their  dust,  I  build  my  athafa  (little  kitchen), 
Arab-like,  and  cook  my  noonday  meal.  On  the 
three  stones,  forming  two  right  angles,  I  place  my  skil- 
let, kindle  under  it  a  fire,  pour  into  it  a  little  sweet 
oil,  and  fry  the  few  eggs  I  purchased  in  the  village. 
I  abominate  the  idea  of  frying  eggs  in  water  as  the 
Americans  do.^  I  had  as  lief  fry  them  in  vinegar  or 
syrup,  where  neither  olive  oil  nor  goat-butter  is  ob- 
tainable. But  to  fry  eggs  in  water?  O  the  barbarity 
of  it!  Why  not,  my  friend,  take  them  boiled  and 
drink  a  little  hot  water  after  them?  This  savours  of 
originality,  at  least,  and  is  just  as  insipid,  if  not  more. 
Withal,  they  who  boil  cabbage,  and  heap  it  in  a  plate 
over  a  slice  of  corn-beef,  and  call  it  a  dish,  can  break 
a  few  boiled  eggs  in  a  cup  of  hot  water  and  call  them 

^  Khalid  would  speak  here  of  poached  eggs,  we  believe. 
And  the  Americans,  to  be  fair,  are  not  so  totally  ignorant 
of  the  art  of  frying.  They  have  lard  —  much  worse  than 
water — in  which  they  cook,  or  poach,  or  fry  —  but  the 
change  in  the  name  does  not  change  the  taste.  So,  we  let 
Khalid's  stricture  on  fried  eggs  and  boiled  cabbage  stand. — 
Editor. 

[261] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

fried.  Be  this  as  it  may.  The  Americans  will  be 
solesistically  simple  even  in  their  kitchen. 

"  Now,  my  skillet  of  eggs  being  ready,  I  draw  out 
of  my  basket  a  cake  of  cheese,  a  few  olives,  an  onion, 
and  three  paper-like  loaves,  rather  leaves,  of  bread, 
and  fall  to.  With  what  relish,  I  need  not  say.  But 
let  it  be  recorded  here,  that  under  the  karob  tree,  on 
the  bank  of  the  River  Adonis,  in  the  shadow  of  the 
great  wall  surrounding  the  ruins  of  the  temple  of 
Tammuz,  I  Khalid,  in  the  thirty-fourth  year  of  the 
reign  of  Abd'ul-Hamid,  gave  a  banquet  to  the  gods  — 
who,  however,  were  content  in  being  present  and  ap- 
plauding the  devouring  skill  of  the  peptic  host  and 
toast-master.  Even  serene  Majesty  at  Yieldiz  would 
give  away,  I  think,  an  hundred  of  its  sealed  dishes  for 
such  a  skillet  of  eggs  in  such  an  enchanted  scene. 
But  for  it,  alas!  such  wild  and  simple  joy  is  a  sealed 
book.  Poor  Serene  Majesty!  Now,  having  gone 
through  the  fruit  course  —  and  is  not  the  olive  a 
fruit  ?  —  I  fill  my  jug  at  the  River  to  make  my  cof- 
fee. And  here  I  ask,  In  what  Hotel  Cecil  or  Wal- 
dorf or  Savoy,  or  in  what  Arab  tent  in  the  desert, 
can  one  get  a  better  cup  of  coffee  than  this,  which 
Khalid  makes  for  himself?  The  gods  be  praised,  be- 
fore and  after.  Ay,  even  in  washing  my  pots  and 
dishes  I  praise  the  good  gods. 

"  And  having  done  this,  I  light  my  cigarette,  lug 
my  basket  on  my  back,  and  again  set  forth.  In  three 
hours,  on  my  way  to  Byblus,  I  reach  a  hamlet  situated 
in  a  deep  narrow  wadi,  closed  on  all  sides  by  huge 
mountain  walls.  The  most  sequestered,  the  most 
[262] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

dreary  place,  I  have  yet  seen.  Here,  though  unwill- 
ing, the  dusk  of  the  December  day  having  set  in,  I  lay 
down  the  stajff  of  wayfare.  And  as  I  enter  the  little 
village,  I  am  greeted  by  the  bleat  of  sheep  and  the  low 
of  the  kine.  The  first  villager  I  meet  is  an  aged 
woman,  who  stands  in  her  door  before  which  is  a 
pomegranate  tree,  telling  her  beads.  She  returns  my 
salaam  graciously,  and  invites  me,  saying,  *  Be  kind  to 
tarry  overnight.'  But  can  one  be  kinder  than  such  an 
hostess?  Seeing  that  I  laid  down  my  burden,  she 
calls  to  her  daughter  to  light  the  seraj  (naphtha  lamp) 
and  bring  some  water  for  the  stranger.  '  Methinks 
thou  wouldst  wash  thy  feet,'  quoth  she.  Indeed,  that 
is  as  essential  and  refreshing,  after  a  day's  walk,  as 
washing  one's  face.  I  sit  me  down,  therefore,  under 
the  pomegranate,  take  off  my  shoes  and  stockings,  and 
the  little  girl,  a  winsome,  dark-eyed,  quick-witted  lass, 
pours  to  me  from  the  pitcher.  I  try  to  take  it  from 
her;  but  she  would  not,  she  said,  be  deprived  of  the 
pleasure  of  serving  the  stranger.  Having  done,  I  put 
on  my  stockings,  and,  leaving  my  shoes  and  basket 
near  the  door,  enter  a  beit  (one-room  house)  meagrely 
but  neatly  furnished.  The  usual  straw  mats  are 
spread  on  the  winter  side,  behind  the  door;  in  the 
corner  is  a  little  linen-covered  divan  with  trimming  of 
beautiful  hand-made  lace,  the  work  of  the  little  girl; 
and  nearby  are  a  few  square  cushions  on  the  floor  and 
a  crude  chair.  The  seraj,  giving  out  more  smoke  and 
smell  than  light,  is  placed  on  a  little  shelf  attached 
to  the  central  pillar  of  the  beit.  Near  the  door  is  a 
bench  for  the  water  jars,  and  in  the  other  corner  are 
[263] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

the  mattresses  and  quilts,  and  the  earthen  tub  contain- 
ing the  round  leaves  of  bread.  Of  these  consist  the 
furniture  and  provision  of  mine  hostess. 

"  Her  son,  a  youth  of  not  more  than  two  score 
years,  returns  from  his  day's  labour  a  while  after  I 
had  arrived.     And  as  he  stands  in  the  door,  his  pick- 
axe and  spade  on  his  shoulder,  his  sister  runs  to  meet 
him,    and    whispers    somewhat    about    the    stranger. 
Sitting  on  the  threshold,  he  takes  off  his  spats  of  cloth 
and  his  clouted  shoes,  while  she  gets  the  pitcher  of 
water.     After    having    washed,    he    enters,    salaams 
graciously,  and  squats  on  the  floor.     The  mother  then 
brings  a  wicker  tray  on  which  is  set  the  supper,  con- 
sisting of  only  bread  and  olives.     'Thou  wilt  over- 
look our  penury,'   she   falters  out ;   *  here  be  all  we 
have.'     In  truth,  my  hostess  is  of  the  poorest  of  the 
Lebanon  peasants;  even  her  sweet-oil  pipkin  and  her 
jars  of  lentils  and  beans,  are  empty.     She  lays  the  tray 
before  her  son  and  invites  me  to  partake  of  the  repast. 
I  go  to  my  basket,  bring  forth  the  few  onions  and  the 
two  cakes  of  cheese   I   had   left,   lay  them  with   an 
apology  on   the  tray  —  the  mother,  abashed,  protests 
< —  and  we  sit  down  cross-legged  in  a  circle  to  supper. 
When  we  rise,  the  little  girl  lights  a  little  fire,  and 
they  enjoy  the  cup  of  coffee  I  make  for  them.     And 
the  mother,  in  taking  hers,  tells  me  naively,  and  with 
a  sigh,  that  it  is  five  years  now  since  she  had  had  a 
cup    of    coffee.     Indeed,    she    had    seen    better    days. 
And    'tis   sorrow,    forestalling  Time,   which    furrows 
her  cheeks  and  robs  her  black  eyes  of  their  lustre  and 
spark. 

[264] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

She  had  once  cattle,  and  a  belt  of  her  own,  and 
rugs,  too,  and  jars  full  of  provision.  But  now  she  is 
a  tenant.  And  her  husband,  ever  since  he  emigrated 
to  America,  did  not  send  a  single  piaster  or  even  write 
a  letter.  From  necessity  she  becomes  a  prey  of 
usurers;  for  those  Lebanon  Moths,  of  which  we  saw 
a  specimen  in  the  village  of  bells  and  potteries,  fall 
mostly  in  the  wardrobe  of  women.  They  are  locusts 
rather,  who  visit  only  the  wheat  fields  of  the  poor. 
Her  home  was  mortgaged  to  one  such,  and  failing 
to  meet  her  obligation,  the  mortgage  is  closed  and  he 
takes  possession.  Soon  after  she  is  evicted,  her  son, 
the  first-born,  a  youth  of  much  promise,  dies. 

He  could  read  and  write,  my  son,'  quoth  she, 
sobbing;  *  of  a  sharp  wit  he  was,  and  very  assiduous 
in  his  studies.  Once  he  accompanied  the  priest  of 
the  village  on  a  visit  to  the  Patriarch,  and  read  there 
a  eulogium  of  his  own  composition,  for  which  he 
received  a  silver  medal.  The  Patriarch  then  sent 
him  to  a  Seminary;  he  was  to  become  a  priest,  my 
son.  He  wrote  a  beautiful  hand  —  both  Arabic  and 
French;  he  was  of  a  fine  wit,  sharp,  quick,  brilliant. 
Ah,  me,  but  those  who  are  of  such  minds  never 
live!' 

"  She  then  tells  me  how  they  lost  their  last  head 
of  cattle.  An  excellent  sheep  it  was;  which  one  night 
they  forgot  outside;  and  the  wolf,  visiting  the  vil- 
lage, sees  it  tied  to  the  mulberry,  howls  for  joy,  and 
carries  it  off.  And  thus  Death  robs  the  poor  woman  of 
her  son;  America,  of  her  husband;  the  Shylock  of  the 
village,  of  her  home;  and  the  wolf,  of  her  last  head  of 
[265] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

cattle.  And  this  were  enough  to  age  even  a  Spartan 
woman.  Late  in  the  evening,  after  she  had  related  at 
length  of  her  sorrows,  three  mattresses  —  all  she  had  — 
are  laid  on  the  straw  mat  near  each  other,  and  the  lit- 
tle girl  had  to  sleep  with  her  mother. 

"  Early  in  the  morning  I  bid  them  farewell,  and 
pass  on  my  way  to  Amsheet,  where  Henriette  Renan, 
the  sister  of  Ernest,  is  buried.  An  hour's  walk,  and 
the  incarcerated  wadi  and  its  folk  lie  concealed  behind. 
I  breathe  again  the  open  air  of  the  mountain  expanse; 
I  behold  again  the  emerald  stretch  of  water  on  the 
horizon,  where  the  baggalas  and  saics,  from  this  dis- 
tance, seem  like  doves  basking  in  the  morning  sun.  I 
cross  the  last  rill,  mount  the  last  hilltop  on  my 
journey,  and  lo,  at  the  foot  of  the  gently  sloping  heath 
are  the  orchards  and  palms  of  Amsheet.  Further  be- 
low is  Jbail,  or  ancient  Byblus,  looking  like  a  clutter 
of  cliffs  on  the  shore.  Farewell  to  the  mountain 
heights,  and  the  arid  wilderness!  Welcome  the  fer- 
tile plains,  and  hopeful  strands.  In  half  an  hour  I 
reach  the  immense  building  —  the  first  or  the  last  of 
the  village,  according  to  your  direction  —  which,  from 
the  top  of  the  hill,  I  thought  to  be  a  fortress.  A 
huge  structure  this,  still  a-building,  and  of  an  archi- 
tecture altogether  different  from  the  conventional 
Lebanon  type.  No  plain  square  affair,  with  three 
pointed  arches  In  the  faqade,  and  a  gable  of  pink  tiles; 
but  here  are  quoins,  oriels,  embrasures,  segmental 
arches,  and  other  luxuries  of  architecture.  Out  of 
place  in  these  wilds,  altogether  out  of  place.  Hard 
by  are  two  primitive  flat-roofed  beits,  standing  grimly 
[266] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

there  as  a  rebuke  to  the  extravagant  tendencies  of  the 
age.  I  go  there  in  the  hope  of  buying  some  cheese 
and  eggs,  and  behold  a  lady  of  severe  beauty  smoking  a 
narghilah  and  giving  orders  to  a  servant.  She  re- 
turns my  salaam  seated  in  her  chair,  and  tells  me  in 
an  injured  air,  after  I  had  made  known  to  her  my 
desire,  that  eggs  and  cheese  are  sold  in  the  stores. 

"  *  You  may  come  in  for  breakfast,'  she  adds ;  and 
clapping  for  the  servant,  orders  him  to  lay  the  table 
for  me.  I  enter  the  beit,  which  is  partitioned  into 
a  kitchen,  a  dining-room,  and  a  parlour.  On  the  table 
is  spread  the  usual  breakfast  of  a  Lebanonese  of 
affluence:  namely,  cheese,  honey,  fig-jam,  and  green 
olives.  The  servant,  who  is  curious  to  know  my 
name,  my  religion,  my  destination,  and  so  forth,  tells 
me  afterwards  that  Madame  is  the  wife  of  the  kaiem- 
kam,  and  the  castle,  which  is  building,  is  their  new 
home. 

"  Coming  out,  I  thank  Madame,  and  ask  her  about 
the  grave  of  Renan's  sister.  She  pauses  amazed, 
blows  her  narghilah  smoke  in  my  face,  surveys  me 
from  top  to  toe,  and  puts  to  me  those  same  questions 
with  which  I  was  tormented  by  her  servant.  Indeed, 
I  had  answered  ten  of  hers,  before  I  got  this  answer 
to  mine:  'The  sister  of  whom,  thou  sayst?  That 
Frenchman  who  came  here  in  the  sixties  for  an- 
tiquities? Yes;  his  sister  died  and  was  buried  here, 
but  no  Christian  remembers  her  for  good.  She  must 
have  been  a  bad  one  like  her  brother,  who  was  an 
infidel,  they  say,  and  did  not  know  or  fear  God. — ■ 
What  wouldst  thou  see  there?  Art  like  the  idiot 
[267] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

Franje  (Europeans)  who  come  here  and  carry  away 
from  around  the  grave  some  stones  and  dust?  Go 
thou  with  him —  (this  to  the  servant)  and  show  him 
the  vault  of  the  Toubeiyahs,  where  she  was  buried,' 
This,  in  a  supercilious  air,  while  she  drew  from 
the  narghilah  the  smoke,  which  I  could  not  relish. 

"  We  come  to  the  cemetery  near  the  church  in  the 
centre  of  the  town.  The  vault  where  Henriette  was 
laid,  a  plain,  plastered  square  cell,  is  not  far  from  an 
oak  which  in  the  morning  envelopes  it  with  its  shadow; 
and  directly  across  are  palms,  whose  shades  at  sun- 
down, make  a  vain  effort  to  kiss  its  dust.  No  grass, 
no  flowers  around;  but  much  of  the  dust  of  neglect. 
And  of  this  I  take  up  a  handful,  like  *  the  idiot 
Franje ' ;  but  instead  of  carrying  it  away,  I  press 
therein  my  lips  and  leave  my  planted  kisses  near 
the  vault. —  When  the  mothers  and  the  sisters  of  these 
sacred  hills,  O  Henriette,  can  see  the  flowers  of  these 
kisses  in  thy  dust,  when  they  can  appreciate  the  sacred 
purity  of  thy  spirit  and  devotion,  what  mothers  then 
we  shall  have,   and  what  sisters! 

"  I  pass  through  the  village  descending  on  the  car- 
riage road  to  Jbail,  or  Byblus.  In  these  diggings  the 
shrewd  antiquary  digs  for  those  precious  tear-bottles 
of  my  ancestors.  And  everywhere  one  turns  are  tombs 
in  which  the  archasologist  finds  somewhat  to  noise 
abroad.  His,  Indeed,  is  a  scholarship  which  Is  essen- 
tially necrophagous.  For  consider,  what  would  be- 
come of  it,  if  a  necropolis,  for  instance,  did  not  yield 
somewhat  of  nourishment, —  a  limb,  a  torso,  a  palimp- 
sest, or  even  an  earthen  lamp,  a  potsherd,  or  a  coin? 
[268] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

I  rail  not  at  these  scholarly  grave-diggers  because  I 
can  not  interest  myself  in  their  work;  that  were  un- 
wise and  unfair.  But  truly,  I  abominate  this  business 
of  *  cashing,'  as  it  were,  the  ruins  and  remains,  the 
ashes  and  dust,  of  our  ancestors.  Archaeology  for 
archaeology's  sake  is  pardonable;  archaeology  for  the 
sake  of  writing  a  book  is  intolerable;  and  archaeology 
for  lucre  is  abominable. 

"  At  Jbail  I  visited  the  citadel,  said  to  be  of  Phoeni- 
cian origin,  which  is  occupied  by  the  mudir  of  the 
District.  Entering  the  gate,  near  which  is  a  chapel 
consecrated  to  Our  Lady  of  that  name,  where  liti- 
gants, when  they  can  not  prove  their  claims,  are  made 
to  swear  to  them,  we  pass  through  a  court  between 
rows  of  Persian  lilac  trees,  into  a  dark,  stivy  arcade 
on  both  sides  of  which  are  dark,  stivy  cells  used  as 
stables.  Reaching  the  citadel  proper,  we  mount  a 
high  stairway  to  the  loft  occupied  by  the  mudir. 
This,  too,  is  partitioned,  but  with  cotton  sheeting,  into 
various  apartments. 

"  The  zabtie,  in  zouave  uniform,  at  the  door,  would 
have  me  wait  standing  in  the  corridor  outside;  for 
his  Excellency  is  at  dinner.  And  Excellency,  as  af- 
fable as  his  zabtie,  hearing  the  parley  without,  growls 
behind  the  scene  and  orders  me  gruffly  to  go  to  the 
court.  '  This  is  not  the  place  to  make  a  complaint,' 
he  adds.  But  the  stranger  at  thy  door,  O  gracious 
Excellency,  complains  not  against  any  one  in  this 
world ;  and  if  he  did,  assure  thee,  he  would  not  com- 
plain to  the  authorities  of  this  world.  This,  or  some 
such  plainness  of  distemper,  the  zouave  communicates 
[269] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

to  his  superior  behind  the  cotton  sheeting,  who  pres- 
ently comes  out,  his  anger  somewhat  abated,  and,  tak- 
ing me  for  a  monk  —  my  jubbah  is  responsible  for  the 
deception  —  invites  me  to  the  sitting-room  in  the 
enormous  loophole  of  the  citadel.  He  himself  was 
beginning  to  complain  of  the  litigants  who  pester  him 
at  his  home,  and  apologise  for  his  ill  humour,  when 
suddenly,  disabused  on  seeing  my  trousers  beneath 
my  jubbah,  he  subjects  me  to  the  usual  cross-examina- 
tion. I  could  not  refrain  from  thinking  that,  not 
being  of  the  cowled  gentry,  he  regretted  having 
honoured  me  with  an  apology. 

"  But  after  knowing  somewhat  of  the  pilgrim 
stranger,  especially  that  he  had  been  in  America,  Ex- 
cellency tempers  the  severity  of  his  expression  and 
evinces  an  agreeable  curiosity.  He  would  know  many 
things  of  that  distant  country;  especially  about  a 
Gold-Mining  Syndicate,  or  Gold-Mining  Fake,  in 
which  he  invested  a  few  hundred  pounds  of  his  for- 
tune. And  I  make  reply,  '  I  know  nothing  about  Gold 
Mines  and  Syndicates,  Excellency:  but  methinks  if 
there  be  gold  in  such  schemes,  the  grubbing,  grab- 
bing Americans  would  not  let  it  come  to  Syria.'  '  In- 
deed, so,'  he  murmurs,  musing;  'indeed,  so.'  And 
clapping  for  the  serving-zabtie  —  the  mudirs  and 
kaiemkams  of  the  Lebanon  make  these  zabties,  whose 
duty  is  to  serve  papers,  serve,  too,  in  their  homes  —  he 
orders  for  me  a  cup  of  cofFee.  And  further  complain- 
ing to  me,  he  curses  America  for  robbing  the  country 
of  its  men  and  labourers. — '  We  can  no  more  find  ten- 
ants for  our  estates,  despite  the  fact  that  they  get 
[270] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

more  of  the  income  than  we  do.  The  shreek 
(partner),  or  tenant,  is  rightly  called  so.  For  the 
owner  of  an  estate  that  yields  fifty  pounds,  for  in- 
stance, barely  gets  half  of  it;  while  the  shreek,  he 
who  tills  and  cultivates  the  land,  gets  away  with  the 
other  half,  sniffing  and  grumbling  withal.  Of  a 
truth,  land-tenants  are  not  so  well-off  anywhere.  And 
if  the  land  but  yields  a  considerable  portion,  any  one 
with  a  few  grains  of  the  energy  of  those  Americans, 
would  prefer  to  be  a  shreek  than  a  real-estate  owner.' 
Thus,  his  Excellency,  complaining  of  the  times,  re- 
gretting his  losses,  cursing  America  and  its  Gold 
Mines;  and  having  done,  drops  the  narghilah  tube 
from  his  hand  and  dozes  on  the  divan. 

"  I  muse  meanwhile  on  Time,  who  sees  in  a  citadel 
of  the  ancient  Phoenicians,  after  many  thousand  years, 
that  same  propensity  for  gold,  that  same  instinct  for 
trade.  The  Phoenicians  worked  gold  mines  in 
Thrace,  and  the  Syrians,  their  descendants,  are  work- 
ing gold  mines  in  America.  But  are  we  as  daring, 
as  independent,  as  honest?  I  am  not  certain,  however, 
if  those  Phoenicians  had  anything  to  do  with  bubbles. 
My  friend  Sanchuniathon  writes  nothing  on  the  sub- 
ject. History  records  not  a  single  instance  of  a  gold- 
mine bubble  in  Thrace,  or  a  silver  ditto  in  Africa. 
Apart  from  this,  have  we,  the  descendants  of  those 
honest  Phoenicians,  any  of  their  inventive  skill  and 
bold  initiative?  They  taught  other  nations  the  art 
of  ship-building;  we  can  not  as  much  as  learn  from 
other  nations  the  art  of  building  a  gig.  They  trans- 
mitted to  the  people  of  the  West  a  knowledge  of 
[271] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

mathematics,  weights,  and  measures;  we  can  not  as 
much  as  weigh  or  measure  the  little  good  Europe  is 
transmitting  to  us.  They  always  fought  bravely 
against  their  conquerors,  always  gave  evidence  of  their 
love  of  independence;  and  we  dare  not  raise  a  finger 
or  whisper  a  word  against  the  red  Tyrant  by  whom 
we  are  degraded  and  enslaved.  We  are  content  in 
paying  tribute  to  a  criminal  Government  for  pressing 
upon  our  necks  the  yoke  and  fettering  hopelessly  our 
minds  and  souls  —  and  my  brave  Phoenicians,  ah,  how 
bravely  they  thought  and  fought.  What  daring 
deeds  they  accomplished!  what  mysteries  of  art  and 
science  they  unveiled! 

"  On  these  shores  they  hammered  at  the  door  of 
invention,  and,  entering,  showed  the  world  how  glass 
is  made;  how  colours  are  extracted  from  pigments; 
how  to  measure,  and  count,  and  communicate  human 
thought.  The  swarthy  sons  of  the  eternal  billows, 
how  shy  they  were  of  the  mountains,  how  enamoured 
of  the  sea!  For  the  mountains,  it  was  truly  said, 
divide  nations,  and  the  seas  connect  them.  And 
my  Phoenicians,  mind  you,  were  for  connection 
always.  Everywhere,  they  lived  on  the  shores,  and 
ever  were  they  ready  to  set  sail. 

"  In  this  mammoth  loophole,  measuring  about  ten 
yards  in  length, —  this  the  thickness  of  the  wall  —  I 
muse  of  another  people  skilled  in  the  art  of  building. 
But  between  the  helots  who  built  the  pyramids  and 
the  freemen  who  built  this  massive  citadel,  what  a 
contrast!  The  Egyptian  mind  could  only  invent 
fables;  the  Phoenician  was  the  vehicle  of  commerce 
[272] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

and  the  useful  arts.  The  Egyptians  would  protect 
their  dead  from  the  tyranny  of  Time;  the  Phoenicians 
would  protect  themselves,  the  living,  from  the  invad- 
ing enemy:  those  based  their  lives  on  the  vagaries  of 
the  future;  these  built  it  on  the  solid  rock  of  the 
present.     ..." 

But  we  have  had  enough  of  Khalid's  gush  about  the 
Phoenicians,  and  we  confess  we  can  not  further  walk 
with  him  on  this  journey.  So,  we  leave  his  Excel- 
lency the  mudir  snoring  on  the  divan,  groaning  under 
the  incubus  of  the  Gold  Mine  Fake,  bemoaning  his 
losses  in  America;  pass  the  zabtie  in  zouave  uniform, 
who  is  likewise  snoring  on  the  door-step;  and,  hurry- 
ing down  the  stairway  and  out  through  the  stivy 
arcade,  we  say  farewell  to  Our  Lady  of  the  Gate,  and 
get  into  one  of  the  carriages  which  ply  the  shore 
between  Junie  and  Jbail.  We  reach  Junie  about 
sundown,  and  Allah  be  praised !  Even  this  toy  of 
a  train  brings  us,  in  thirty  minutes,  to  Beirut. 


[273] 


CHAPTER  V 

UNION  AND  PROGRESS 

"LJ  AD  not  Khalid  in  his  retirement  touched  his  philo- 
sophic  raptures  with  a  little  local  colouring,  had 
he  not  given  an  account  of  his  tramping  tour 
in  the  Lebanons,  the  hiatus  in  Shakib's  Histoire  In- 
time  could  not  have  been  bridged.  It  would  have 
remained,  much  to  our  vexation  and  sorrow,  some- 
what like  the  ravine  in  which  Khalid  almost  lost  his 
life.  But  now  we  return,  after  a  year's  absence,  to 
our  Scribe,  who  at  this  time  in  Baalbek  is  soldering 
and  hammering  out  rhymes  in  praise  of  Niazi  and 
Enver,  Abd'ul-Hamid  and  the  Dastur  (Consti- 
tution). 

"  When  Khalid,  after  his  cousin's  marriage,  sud- 
denly disappeared  from  Baalbek,"  writes  he,  "  I  felt 
that  something  had  struck  me  violently  on  the  brow, 
and  everything  around  me  was  dark.  I  could  not 
withhold  my  tears:  I  wept  like  a  child,  even  like 
Khalid's  mother.  I  remember  he  would  often  speak 
of  suicide  in  those  days.  And  on  the  evening  of  that 
fatal  day  we  spent  many  hours  discussing  the  ques- 
tion. '  Why  is  not  one  free  to  kill  himself,'  he 
finally  asked,  '  if  one  is  free  to  become  a  Jesuit  ? ' 
But  I  did  not  believe  he  was  in  earnest.  Alas,  he 
was.  For  on  the  morning  of  the  following  day,  I 
[274] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

went  up  to  his  tent  on  the  roof  and  found  nothing  of 
Khalid's  belongings  but  a  pamphlet  on  the  subject, 
*  Is  Suicide  a  Sin  ? '  and  right  under  the  title  the 
monosyllable  LA  (no)  and  his  signature.  The  fright- 
fulness  of  his  intention  stood  like  a  spectre  before 
me.  I  clapped  one  hand  upon  the  other  and  wept. 
I  made  inquiries  in  the  city  and  in  the  neighbouring 
places,  but  to  no  purpose.  Oh,  that  dreadful,  dismal 
day,  when  everywhither  I  went  something  seemed  to 
whisper  in  my  heart,  '  Khalid  is  no  more.'  It  was 
the  first  time  in  my  life  that  I  felt  the  pangs  of  sepa- 
ration, the  sting  of  death  and  sorrow.  The  days  and 
months  passed,  heartlessly  confirming  my  conjecture, 
my  belief. 

"  One  evening,  when  the  last  glimmer  of  hope 
passed  away,  I  sat  down  and  composed  a  threnody  in 
his  memory.  And  I  sent  it  to  one  of  the  newspapers 
of  Beirut,  In  the  hope  that  Khalid,  if  he  still  lived, 
might  chance  to  see  it.  It  was  published  and  quoted 
by  other  journals  here  and  in  Egypt,  who,  in  their 
eulogies,  spoke  of  Khalid  as  the  young  Baalbekian 
philosopher  and  poet.  One  of  these  newspapers, 
whose  editor  is  a  dear  friend  of  mine,  and  of  comely 
ancient  virtue,  did  not  mention,  from  a  subtle  sense 
of  tender  regard  for  my  feelings,  the  fact  that  Khalid 
committed  suicide.  '  He  died,'  the  Notice  said,  '  of 
a  sudden  and  violent  defluxion  of  rheums,^  which  baf- 

^  In  some  parts  of  Syria,  as  in  Arabia,  almost  every  ill  and 
affection  is  attributed  to  the  rheums,  or  called  so.  Rheuma- 
tism, for  instance,  is  explained  by  the  Arab  quack  as  a  de- 
fluxion  of  rheums,  failing  to  discharge  through  the  upper 
orifices,  progress  downward,  and  settling  in  the  muscles  and 

[275] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

fled  the  physician  and  resisted  his  skill  and  physic* 
Another  journal,  whose  editor's  religion  is  of  the 
Jesuitical  pattern,  spoke  of  him  as  a  miserable  God- 
abandoned  wretch  who  was  not  entitled  to  the  right 
of  Christian  burial ;  and  fulminated  at  its  contem- 
poraries for  eulogising  the  youthful  infidel  and  moan- 
ing his  death,  thus  spreading  and  justifying  his  evil 
example. 

"  And  so,  the  days  passed,  and  the  months,  and 
Khalid  was  still  dead.  In  the  summer  of  this  year, 
when  the  Constitution  was  proclaimed,  and  the 
country  was  rioting  in  the  saturnalia  of  Freedom 
and  Equality,  my  sorrow  was  keener,  deeper  than 
ever.  Not  I  alone,  but  the  cities  and  the  deserts  of 
Syria  and  Arabia,  missed  my  loving  friend.  How 
gloriously  he  would  have  filled  the  tribune  of  the  day, 
I  sadly  mused.  .  .  .  O  Khalid,  I  can  never  for- 
give this  crime  of  thine  against  the  sacred  rites  of 
Friendship.  Such  heartlessness,  such  inexorable 
cruelty,  I  have  never  before  observed  in  thee.  No 
matter  how  much  thou  hast  profited  by  thy  retire- 
ment to  the  mountains,  no  matter  how  much  thy 
solitude  hath  given  thee  of  health  and  power  and 
wisdom,  thy  cruel  remissness  can  not  altogether  be 
drowned  in  my  rejoicing.  To  forget  those  who  love 
thee  above  everything  else  in  the  world, —  thy  mother, 
thy  cousin,   thine  affectionate  brother —  " 

And   our   Scribe   goes  on,   blubbering  like   a  good 

joints,  produce  the  affection.  And  might  there  not  be  more 
truth  in  that  than  the  diagnosis  of  him  who  is  a  Membra  de 
la  Faculte  de  Medicine  de  Fxance  ? —  Editor. 

[276] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

Syrian  his  complaint  and  joy,  gushing  now  in  verse, 
now  in  what  is  worse,  in  rhymed  prose,  until  he 
reaches  the  point  which  is  to  us  of  import.  Khalid, 
in  the  winter  of  the  first  year  of  the  Dastur  (Con- 
stitution) writes  to  him  many  letters  from  Beirut, 
of  which  he  gives  us  not  less  than  fifty!  And  of 
these,  the  following,  if  not  the  most  piquant  and  in- 
teresting, are  the  most  indispensable  to  our  History. 

Letter  I   (As  numbered  in  the  Original) 

My  loving  Brother  Shakib: 

To  whom,  if  not  to  you,  before  all,  should  I  send 
the  first  word  of  peace,  the  first  sign  of  the  resurrec- 
tion? To  my  mother?  To  my  cousin  Najma? 
Well,  yes.  But  if  I  write  to  them,  my  letters  will  be 
brought  to  you  to  be  read  and  answered.  So  I  write 
now  direct,  hoping  that  you  will  convey  to  them  these 
tidings  of  joy.  'Tis  more  than  a  year  now  since  I 
slinked  out  of  Baalbek,  leaving  you  in  the  dark  about 
me.  Surely,  I  deserve  the  chastisement  of  your  bit- 
terest thoughts.  But  what  could  I  do?  Such  is 
the  rigour  of  the  sort  of  life  I  lived  that  any  communi- 
cation with  the  outside  world,  especially  with  friends 
and  lovers,  would  have  marred  it.  So,  I  had  to  be 
silent  as  the  pines  in  which  I  put  up,  until  I  became 
as  healthy  as  the  swallows,  my  companions  there. 
When  we  meet,  I  shall  recount  to  you  the  many  cu- 
rious incidents  of  my  solitude  and  my  journey  in  the 
sacred  hills  of  Lebanon.  To  these  auspicious  moun- 
tains, my  Brother,  I  am  indebted  for  the  health  and 
[277] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

joy  and  wisdom  that  are  now  mine;  and  yours,  too, 
if  you  consider. 

Strange,  is  it  not,  that  throughout  my  journey, 
and  I  have  passed  in  many  villages,  nothing  heard  I 
of  this  great  political  upheaval  in  the  Empire.  Prob- 
ably the  people  of  the  Lebanons  cherish  not  the  Revo- 
lution. There  is  so  much  in  common,  I  find,  be- 
tween them  and  the  Celtic  races,  who  always  in  such 
instances  have  been  more  royalists  than  the  king. 
And  I  think  Mt.  Lebanon  is  going  to  be  the  Vendee 
of  the  Turks. 

I  have  been  in  Beirut  but  a  few  days.  And 
truly,  I  could  not  believe  my  eyes,  when  in  the  Place 
de  la  Concorde  (I  hope  the  Turks  are  not  going  to 
follow  in  the  steps  of  the  French  Revolutionists  in  all 
things),  I  could  not  believe  my  eyes,  when,  in  this 
muddy  Square,  on  the  holy  Stump  of  Liberty,  I  be- 
held my  old  friend  the  Spouter  dispensing  to  the  tur- 
baned  and  tarboushed  crowd,  among  which  were 
cameleers  and  muleteers  with  their  camels  and  mules, 
of  the  blessing  of  that  triple  political  abracadabra  of 
the  France  of  more  than  a  century  passed.  Liberty, 
Fraternity,  Equality!  —  it's  a  shame  that  the  show 
has  been  running  for  six  months  now  and  I  did  not 
know  it.  I  begin  by  applauding  the  Spouters  of  Con- 
cord Square,  the  donkey  that  I  am.  But  how,  with 
my  cursed  impulsiveness,  can  I  always  keep  on  the 
sidewalk  of  reason?  I,  who  have  suckled  of  the  milk 
of  freedom  and  broke  the  bottle,  too,  on  my  Nurse's 
head,  I  am  not  to  blame,  if  from  sheer  joy,  I  cheer 
those  who  are  crowning  her  on  a  dung-hill  with 
[278] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

wreaths  of  stable  straw.  It's  better,  billah,  than 
breaking  the  bottle  on  her  head,  is  it  not?  And  so, 
let  the  Spouters  spout.  And  let  the  sheikh  and  the 
priest  and  the  rabbi  embrace  on  that  very  Stump  and 
make  up.  Live  the  Era  of  Concord  and  peace  and 
love!  Live  the  Dastur!  Hurrah  for  the  Union 
and  Progress  Heroes!  Come  down  to  Beirut  and 
do  some  shouting  with  your  fellow  citizens. 

Letter  V 

No;  I  do  not  approve  of  your  idea  of  associating 
with  that  young  Mohammedan  editor.  You  know 
what  Is  said  about  the  tiger  and  its  spots.  Besides, 
I  had  another  offer  from  a  Christian  oldtimer;  but 
you  might  as  well  ask  me  to  become  a  Jesuit  as  to 
became  a  Journalist.  I  wrote  last  week  a  political 
article,  In  which  I  criticised  Majesty's  Address  to 
the  Parliament,  and  mauled  those  oleaginous,  pala- 
vering, mealy-mouthed  Representatives,  who  would 
not  dare  point  out  the  lies  in  it.  They  hear  the  Chief 
Clerk  read  of  *'  the  efforts  made  by  the  Government 
during  the  past  thirty  years  In  the  Interest  of  educa- 
tion," and  applaud;  while  at  the  Royal  Banquet  they 
jostle  and  hustle  each  other  to  kiss  the  edge  of 
Majesty's  frock-coat.     The  abject  slaves! 

The  article  was  much  quoted  and  commented  upon ; 
I  was  flouted  by  many,  defended  by  a  few,  these  asked : 
"  Was  the  Government  of  Abd'ul-Hamid,  committing 
all  its  crimes  In  the  interest  of  education,  were  we 
being  trained  by  the  Censorship  and  the  Bosphorus 
Terror  for  the  Dastur?"  "But  the  person  of 
Majesty,  the  sacredness  of  the  Khalifate,"  cried  the 
[279] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

others.  And  a  certain  one,  in  the  course  of  his  at- 
tack, denies  the  existence  of  Khalid,  who  died,  said 
he,  a  year  ago.  And  what  matters  it  if  a  dead  man 
can  stir  a  whole  city  and  blow  into  the  nostrils  of  its 
walking  spectres  a  breath  of  life? 

I  spoke  last  night  in  one  of  the  music  halls  and 
gave  the  Mohammedans  a  piece  of  my  mind.  The 
poor  Christians!  —  they  feared  the  Government  in  the 
old  regime;  they  cower  before  the  boatmen  in  this. 
For  the  boatmen  of  Beirut  have  not  lost  their 
prestige  and  power.  They  are  a  sort  of  commune 
and  are  yet  supreme.  Yes,  they  are  always  riding 
the  whirlwind  and  directing  the  storm.  And  who 
dares  say  a  word  against  them?  Every  one  of  them, 
in  his  swagger  and  bluster,  is  an  Abd'ul-Hamid. 
Alas,  everything  is  yet  in  a  chaotic  state.  The  boat- 
man's shriek  can  silence  the  Press  and  make  the  Spout- 
ers  tremble. 

I  am  to  lecture  In  the  Public  Hall  of  one  of  the 
Colleges  here  on  the  "  Moral  Revolution."  Believe 
me,  I  would  not  utter  a  word  or  write  a  line  if  I 
were  not  impelled  to  it.  And  just  as  soon  as  some 
one  comes  to  the  front  to  champion  in  this  land  spir- 
itual and  moral  freedom,  I'll  go  "  way  back  and  sit 
down."  For  why  should  I  then  give  myself  the 
trouble?  And  the  applause  of  the  multitude,  mind 
you,  brings  me  not  a  single  olive. 

Letter  XXH 

I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  go  to  Cairo,  and  I  was 
coming  up  to  say  farewell  to  you  and  mother.     For 
[280] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

I  like  not  Beirut,  where  one  In  winter  must  go 
about  in  top-boots,  and  in  a  dust-coat  in  summer. 
I  wonder  what  Rousseau,  who  called  Paris  the  city 
of  mud,  would  have  said  of  this?  Besides,  a  city 
ruled  by  boatmen  is  not  a  city  for  gentlemen  to  live 
in.  So,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  get  out  of  it,  and 
quickly.  But  yesterday  morning,  before  I  had  taken 
my  coffee,  some  one  knocked  at  my  door.  I  open, 
and  lo,  a  policeman  in  shabby  uniform,  makes  inquiry 
about  Khalid.  What  have  I  done,  I  thought,  to 
deserve  this  visit?  And  before  I  had  time  to  imag- 
ine the  worst,  he  delivers  a  card  from  the  Deputy  to 
Syria  of  the  Union  and  Progress  Society  of  Salonique. 
I  am  desired  in  this  to  come  at  my  earliest  conven- 
ience to  the  Club  to  meet  this  gentleman.  There,  I 
am  received  by  an  Army  Officer  and  a  certain  Ahmed 
Bey.  And  after  the  coffee  and  the  formalities  of  ci- 
vility are  over,  I  am  asked  to  accompany  them  on  a 
tour  to  the  principal  cities  of  upper  Syria  —  to  Da- 
mascus, Homs,  Hama,  and  Aleppo.  The  young 
Army  Officer  is  to  speechify  in  Turkish,  I,  In  Arabic, 
and  Ahmed  Bey,  who  Is  as  oleaginous  as  a  Turk 
could  be,  will  take  up,  I  think,  the  collection.  See- 
ing In  this  a  chance  to  spread  the  Idea  among  our 
people,  I  accept,  and  In  a  fortnight  we  shall  be  in 
Damascus.  You  must  come  there,  for  I  am  burning 
to  meet  and  embrace  you. 

Letter  XXV 

Whom    do    you    think    I    met    yesterday?     Why, 
nothing  gave  me  greater  pleasure  ever  since  I   have 
[281] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

been  here  than  this:  I  was  crossing  the  Square  ont 
my  way  to  the  Club,  when  some  one  plucking  at  my 
jubbah  angrily  greets  me.  I  look  back,  and  behold 
our  dear  old  Im-Hanna,  who  has  just  returned  from 
New  York.  She  stood  there  waving  her  hand  wildly 
and  rating  me  for  not  returning  her  salaam.  "  You 
know  no  one  any  more,  O  Khalid,"  she  said  plain- 
tively; "I  call  to  you  three  times  and  you  look  not, 
hear  not.  No  matter,  O  Khalid."  Thereupon,  she 
embraces  me  as  fondly  as  my  mother.  "  And  why," 
she  inquired,  "do  you  wear  this  black  jubbah?  Are 
you  now  a  monk?  Were  it  not  for  that  long  hair 
and  that  cap  of  yours,  I  would  not  have  known  you. 
Let  me  see,  isn't  that  the  cap  I  bought  you  in  New 
York?"  And  she  takes  it  off  my  head  to  examine 
it.  "  Yes,  that's  it.  How  good  of  you  to  keep  it. 
Well,  how  are  you  now?  Do  you  cough  any  more? 
Are  you  still  crazy  about  books?  I  don't  think  so, 
for  you  have  rosy  cheeks  now."  And  sobbing  for  joy, 
she  embraces  me  again  and  again. 

She  is  neatly  dressed,  wears  a  silk  fiche,  and  is  as 
alert  as  ever.  In  the  afternoon,  I  visit  her  at  the 
Hotel,  and  she  asks  me  to  accompany  her  to  the  Bank, 
where  she  cashes  three  bills  of  exchange  for  three 
hundred  pounds  each!  I  ask  her  what  she  is  going 
to  do  with  all  this  money,  and  she  tells  me  that  she 
is  going  to  build  a  little  home  for  her  grandson  and 
send    him    to    the    College    of    the    Americans    here. 

"  And  is  there  like  America  in  all  the  world  ?  "  she 
exclaims.     "  Ah,   my  heart   for  America !  "     And   on 
asking  her  why  she  did  not  remain  there :  "  Fear  not ; 
[282] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

just  as  soon  as  I  build  my  house  and  place  my  son 
in  the  College  I  am  going  back  to  New  York.    What, 

0  Khalid,  will  you  return  with  me  ? "  She  then 
takes  some  gold  pieces  in  her  hand,  and  lowering  her 
voice :  *'  May  be  you  need  some  money ;  take,  take 
these."  Dear  old  Im-Hanna,  I  would  not  refuse  her 
favour,  and  I  would  not  accept  one  such.     What  was 

1  to  do?  Coming  through  the  Jewellers'  bazaar  I 
hit  upon  an  idea,  and  with  the  money  she  slipped 
into  my  pocket,  I  bought  a  gold  watch  in  one  of  the 
stores  and  charged  her  to  present  it  to  her  grandson. 
"  Say  it  is  from  his  brother,  your  other  grandson 
Khalid."  She  protests,  scolds,  and  finally  takes  the 
watch,  saying,  "  Well,  nothing  is  changed  in  you:  still 
the  same  crazy  Khalid." 

To-morrow  she  is  coming  to  see  my  room,  and  to 
cook  for  me  a  dish  of  inojadderah!  Ah,  the  old  days 
in  the  cellar ! 

In  the  thirtieth  Letter,  one  of  considerable  length, 
dated  March,  is  an  exceedingly  titillating  divagation 
on  the  gulma  (oustraation  of  animals,  called  forth,  we 

are   told,    "  by    the    rut    of    the    d d    cats   in    the 

yard."  Poor  Khalid  can  not  sleep.  One  night  he 
jumps  out  of  bed  and  chases  them  away  with  his 
skillet,  saying,  "  Why  don't  I  make  such  a  row,  ye 
wantons?"  They  come  again  the  following  night, 
and  Khalid  on  the  following  morning  moves  to  a 
Hotel  which,  by  good  or  ill  chance,  is  adjacent  to  the 
lupanars  of  the  city.  His  window  opens  on  another 
yard  in  which  other  cats,  alas!  —  of  the  human  species 
[283] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

this  time  —  are  caterwauling,  harrowing  the  soul  of 
him  and  the  night.  He  makes  a  second  remove,  but 
finds  himself  disturbed  this  time  by  the  rut  of  a 
certain  roebuck  within.  Nature,  O  Khalid,  will  not 
be  cheated,  no  more  than  she  will  be  abused,  without 
retaliating  soon  or  late.  True,  you  got  out  of  many 
ruts  heretofore ;  but  this  you  can  not  get  out  of  except 
you  go  deeper  into  it.  Your  anecdotes  from  Ad- 
Damiry  and  your  quotations  from  Montaigne  shall 
not  help  you.  And  your  allusions  to  March-cats  and 
March-Khalids  are  too  pitiful  to  be  humorous.  In- 
deed, were  not  the  tang  of  lubricity  in  this  Letter  too 
strong,  we  would  have  given  in  full  the  confession 
it  contains. 

We  now  come  to  the  last  of  this  Series,  in  which 
Khalid  speaks  of  a  certain  American  lady,  a  Mrs. 
Goodfree,  or  Gotfry,  who  is  a  votary  of  Ebbas  Ef- 
fendi,  the  Pope  of  Babism  at  Heifa.  Mrs.  Gotfry 
may  not  be  a  Babist  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word; 
but  she  is  a  votary  and  worshipper  of  the  Bab.  To 
her  the  personal  element  in  a  creed  is  of  more  im- 
portance than  the  ism.  Hence,  her  pilgrimage  every 
year  to  Heifa.  She  comes  with  presents  and  gold ; 
and  Ebbas  Effendi,  who  is  not  impervious  to  the  in- 
fluence of  other  gods  than  his  own,  permits  her  into 
the  sanctuary,  where  she  shares  with  him  the  light  of 
divine  revelation  and  returns  to  the  States,  as  the 
Priestess  of  the  Cult,  to  bless  and  console  the  Faith- 
ful. Khalid  was  dining  with  Ahmed  Bey  at  the 
Grand  Hotel  —  but  here  is  a  portion  of  the  Letter. 

By  a  devilish  mischance  she  occupied  the  seat  op- 
[284] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

poslte  to  mine.  And  in  this  trap  of  Iblis  was  decoy 
enough  for  a  poor  mouse  like  me.  It  is  an  age  since 
I  beheld  such  an  Oriental  gem  in  an  American 
setting;  or  such  a  strange  Southern  beauty  in  an 
exotic  frame.  For  one  would  think  her  from  the 
South,  or  further  down  from  Mexico.  Nay,  of  An- 
dalusian,  and  consequently  of  Arabian,  origin  she  must 
be.  Her  hair  and  her  eyes  are  of  the  richest  jet;  her 
glance,  voluptuous,  mysterious;  her  complexion, 
neither  white  nor  olive,  but  partakes  of  both, —  a 
gauze-like  shade  of  heliotrope,  as  it  were,  over  a  pink 
and  straw  surface,  if  you  can  imagine  that;  and  her 
expression,  a  play  between  devotion  and  diabolism 
—  now  a  question  mark  to  love,  now  an  exclama- 
tion to  sorrow,  and  at  times  a  dash  between  both. 
By  what  mysterious  medium  of  romance  and  ad- 
venture did  America  produce  such  a  beauty,  I  can 
not  tell.  Perhaps  she,  too,  can  not.  If  you  saw  her, 
O  Shakib,  you'd  do  nothing  for  months  but  dedicate 
odes  to  her  eyes, —  to  the  deep,  dark  infinity  of  their 
luring,  devouring  beauty, —  which  seem  to  drop  honey 
and  poison  from  every  arched  hair  of  their  fulsome 
lashes.  Withal, —  another  devilish  mischance, —  she 
was  dressed  in  black  and  wore  a  white  silk  ruffle,  like 
myself.  And  her  age?  Well,  she  can  not  have 
passed  her  sixth  lustrum.  And  really,  as  the  Novelist 
would  say  in  his  Novel,  she  looks  ten  years  younger. 
.  .  .  To  say  we  were  attracted  to  each  other 
were  presumptuous:  but  /  was  taken.  .  .  .  Near 
her  sat  a  Syrian  gentleman  of  my  acquaintance,  with 
whom  she  was  conversing  when  we  entered.  That 
[285] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

is  the  lady  whose  beauty,  when  she  was  sitting,  I  de- 
scribed to  you:  but  when  she  got  up  to  leave  the  table, 
— alas,  and  ay  me,  and  all  the  other  expressions  of 
regret  and  sorrow  That  such  a  beautiful  face  should 
be  denied  a  corresponding  beauty  of  figure.  And 
what  is  more  pitiable  about  her,  she  is  lame  In  the 
right  leg.  Poor  dear  Misfortune,  I  wish  it  were  in 
my  power  to  add  an  inch  of  my  limb  to  hers. 

And  Khalid  goes  on  limping,  drooling,  alassing,  to 
the  end.  After  dinner  he  is  introduced  to  his  "  poor 
dear  Misfortune  "  by  his  Syrian  friend.  But  being 
with  Ahmed  Bey  he  can  not  remain  this  evening.  On 
the  following  day,  however,  he  is  invited  to  lunch; 
and  on  the  terrace  facing  the  sea,  they  pass  the  after- 
noon discussing  various  subjects.  Mrs.  Gotfry  is  sur- 
prised how  a  Syrian  of  Khalid's  mind  can  not  see  the 
beauties  of  Babism,  or  Buhaism,  as  it  is  now  called, 
and  the  lofty  spirituality  of  the  Bab.  But  she  for- 
gives him  his  lack  of  faith,  gives  him  her  card,  and 
invites  him  to  her  home,  if  he  ever  returns  to  the 
United  States. 

Now,  maugre  the  fact  that,  in  a  postscript  to  this 
Letter,  Khalid  closes  with  these  words,  "  And  what 
have  I  to  do  with  priests  and  priestesses?  "  we  can  not 
but  harbour  a  suspicion  that  his  "  Union  and  Prog- 
ress "  tour  is  bound  to  have  more  than  a  political 
significance.  By  ill  or  good  hap  those  words  are 
beginning  to  assume  a  double  meaning;  and  maugre 
all  efforts  to  the  contrary,  the  days  must  soon  unfold 
the  twofold  tendency  and  result  of  the  "  Union  and 
Progress  "  ideas  of  Khalid. 

[286] 


CHAPTER  VI 

REVOLUTIONS  WITHIN  AND  WITHOUT 

t'jTVEN  Carlyle  can  be  longwinded  and  short- 
sighted on  occasions.  *  Once  in  destroying  the 
False,'  says  he,  '  there  was  a  certain  inspiration.' 
And  always  there  is,  to  be  sure,  my  Master.  For 
the  world  is  not  Europe,  and  the  final  decision  on 
Who  Is  and  What  Is  To  Rule,  was  not  delivered 
by  the  French  Revolution.  The  Orient,  the  land  of 
origination  and  prophecy,  must  yet  solve  for  itself 
this  eternal  problem  of  the  Old  and  New,  the  False 
and  True.  And  whether  by  Revolutions,  Specula- 
tions, or  Constitutions,  ancient  Revelation  will  be 
purged  and  restored  to  Its  original  pristine  purity: 
the  superannuated  lumber  that  accumulated  around 
it  during  centuries  of  apathy,  fatalism,  and  sloth,  must 
go:  the  dust  and  mould  and  cobwebs  of  the  Temple 
will  be  swept  away.  Indeed,  '  a  war  must  be 
eternally  waged  on  evils  eternally  renewed.'  The 
genius  of  destruction  has  done  its  work,  you  say,  O 
my  esteemed  Master?  and  there  is  nothing  more  to 
destroy?  The  gods  might  say  this  of  other  worlds 
than  ours.  In  Europe,  as  in  Asia,  there  is  to  be 
considered  and  remembered:  if  this  mass  of  things 
we  call  humanity  and  civilisation  were  as  healthy  as 
the  eternal  powers  would  have  them,  the  healthiest  of 
[287] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

the  race  would  not  be  constantly  studying  and  dis- 
secting our  social  and  political  ills. 

"  In  a  certain  sense,  we  are  healthier  to-day  than 
the  Europeans;  but  our  health  is  that  of  the  slave  and 
not  the  master:  it  is  of  more  benefit  to  others  than 
it  is  to  ourselves.  We  are  doomed  to  be  the  drudges 
of  neurasthenic,  psychopathic,  egoistic  masters,  if  we 
do  not  open  our  minds  to  the  light  of  science  and 
truth.  '  Every  age  has  its  Book,'  says  the  Prophet. 
But  every  book,  if  it  aspires  to  be  a  guide  to  life,  must 
contain  of  the  eternal  truth  what  was  in  the  one  that 
preceded  it.  We  can  not  afford  to  let  aught  of  this 
die.  Leave  the  principal  original  altar  in  the  Temple, 
and  destroy  all  the  others.  Light  on  that  altar  the 
torch  of  science,  which  the  better  mind  and  cleaner 
hand  of  Europe  are  transmitting  to  us,  and  place  your 
foot  upon  its  false  and  unspeakable  divinities.  The 
gods  of  wealth,  of  egoism,  of  alcohol,  of  fornication, 
we  must  not  acknowledge;  nay,  we  must  resist  unto 
death  their  malign  influence  and  power.  But  alas, 
what  are  we  doing  to-day?  Instead  of  looking  up  to 
the  pure  and  lofty  souls  of  Europe  for  guidance,  we 
welter  in  the  mud  with  the  lowest  and  most  degener- 
ate. We  are  beginning  to  know  and  appreciate 
English  whiskey,  but  not  English  freedom;  we  know 
the  French  grisettes,  but  not  the  French  sages;  we 
guzzle  German  beer,  but  of  German  wisdom  we 
taste  not  a  drop. 

"  O  my  Brothers,  let  us  cease  rejoicing  in  the 
Dastur;  for  at  heart  we  know  no  freedom,  nor  truth, 
nor  order.  We  elect  our  representatives  to  Parlia- 
[288] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

ment,  but  not  unlike  the  Europeans;  we  borrow  from 
France  what  the  deeper  and  higher  mind  of  France  no 
longer  believes;  we  imitate  England  in  what  England 
has  long  since  discarded ;  but  our  Books  of  Revelation, 
which  made  France  and  Germany  and  England  what 
they  are,  and  in  which  is  the  divine  essence  of  truth 
and  right  and  freedom,  we  do  not  rightly  understand. 
A  thousand  falsehoods  are  cluttered  around  the  truth 
to  conceal  it  from  us.  I  call  you  back,  O  my 
Brothers,  to  the  good  old  virtues  of  our  ancestors. 
Without  these  the  Revolution  will  miscarry  and  our 
Dastur  will  not  be  worth  a  date-stone.  Our  ances- 
tors,—  they  never  bowed  their  proud  neck  to  tyranny, 
whether  represented  in  an  autocrat  or  in  a  body  of 
autocrats;  they  never  betrayed  their  friends;  they 
never  soiled  their  fingers  with  the  coin  of  usury;  they 
never  sacrificed  their  manhood  to  fashion ;  they  never 
endangered  in  the  cafes  and  lupanars  their  health  and 
reason.  The  Mosque  and  the  Church,  notwithstand- 
ing the  ignorance  and  bigotry  they  foster,  are  still  bet- 
ter than  lunatic  asylums.  And  Europe  can  not  have 
enough  of  these  to-day. 

"  Continence,  purity  of  heart,  fidelity,  simplicity,  a 
sense  of  true  manhood,  magnanimity  of  spirit,  a  health- 
iness of  body  and  mind, —  these  are  the  beautiful  an- 
cient virtues.  These  are  the  supreme  truths  of  the 
Books  of  Revelation :  in  these  consists  the  lofty  spirit- 
uality of  the  Orient.  But  through  what  thick,  obscene 
growths  we  must  pass  to-day,  through  what  cactus 
hedges  and  thistle-fields  we  must  penetrate,  before  we 
rise  again  to  those  heights. 

[289] 


THE     BOOK    OF    KHALID 

There  can  be  no  Revolution  without  a  Reforma- 
tion,' says  a  German  philosopher.  And  truly  so.  For 
the  fetters  which  bind  us  can  not  be  shaken  off,  before 
the  conscience  is  emancipated.  A  political  revolution 
must  always  be  preceded  by  a  spiritual  one,  that  it 
might  have  some  enduring  effect.  Otherwise,  things 
will  revert  to  their  previous  state  of  rottenness  as  sure 
as  Allah  lives.  But  mind  you,  I  do  not  say,  Cut  down 
the  hedges;  mow  the  thistle-fields;  uproot  the  obscene 
plants;  no:  I  only  ask  you  to  go  through  them,  and 
out  of  them,  to  return  no  more.  Sell  your  little  es- 
tate there,  if  you  have  one;  sell  it  at  any  price:  give  it 
away  and  let  the  dead  bury  their  dead.  Cease  to  work 
in  those  thorny  fields,  and  God  and  nature  will  do  the 
rest. 

*'  I  am  for  a  reformation  by  emigration.  And 
quietly,  peacefully,  this  can  be  done.  Nor  fire,  nor 
sword  bring  I:  only  this  I  say:  Will  and  do;  resolve 
and  act  upon  your  resolution.  The  emigration  of 
the  mind  before  the  revolution  of  the  state,  my  Broth- 
ers. The  soul  must  be  free,  and  the  mind,  before 
one  has  a  right  to  be  a  member  of  a  free  Government, 
before  one  can  justly  enjoy  his  rights  and  perform  his 
duties  as  a  subject.  But  a  voting  slave,  O  my  Broth- 
ers, is  the  pitifulest  spectacle  under  the  sun.  And  re- 
member that  neither  the  Dastur,  nor  the  Unionists,  nor 
the  Press,  can  give  you  this  spiritual  freedom,  if  you  do 
not  awake  and  emigrate.  Come  up  to  the  highlands: 
here  is  a  patrimony  for  each  of  you ;  here  are  vineyards 
to  cultivate.  Leave  the  thistle-fields  and  marshes  be- 
hind;  regret  nothing.  Come  out  of  the  superstitions 
[290] 


IN     KULMAKAN 

of  the  sheikhs  and  ulema ;  of  the  barren  mazes  of  the 
sufis;  of  the  deadly  swamps  of  theolougues  and  priests: 
emigrate!  Every  one  of  us  should  be  a  Niazi  in  this 
moral  struggle,  an  Enver  in  this  spiritual  revolution. 
A  little  will-power,  a  little  heroism,  added  to  those  vir- 
tues I  have  named,  the  solid  virtues  of  our  ancestors, 
and  the  Orient  will  no  longer  be  an  object  of  scorn 
and  gain  to  commercial  Europe.  We  shall  then  stand 
on  an  equal  footing  with  the  Europeans.  Ay,  with  the 
legacy  of  science  which  we  shall  learn  to  invest,  and 
with  our  spirituality  divested  of  its  cobwebs,  and  puri- 
fied, we  shall  stand  even  higher  than  the  Americans 
and  Europeans."  — 

On  the  following  day  Damascus  was  simmering 
with  excitement  —  Damascus,  the  stronghold  of  the 
ulema  —  the  learned  fanatics  —  whom  Khalid  has 
lightly  pinched.  But  they  scarcely  felt  it;  they  could 
not  believe  it.  Now,  the  gentry  of  Islam,  the  sheikhs 
and  ulema,  would  hear  this  lack-beard  dervish,  as  he 
was  called.  But  they  disdain  to  stand  with  the  rabble 
in  the  Midan  or  congregate  with  the  Mutafamejin 
(Europeanised)  in  the  public  Halls.  Nowhere  but 
at  the  Mosque,  therefore,  can  they  hear  what  this 
Khalid  has  to  say.  This  was  accordingly  decided 
upon,  and,  being  approved  by  all  parties  concerned, — 
the  Mufti,  the  Vali,  the  Deputies  of  the  Holy  Society 
and  the  speaker, —  a  day  was  set  for  the  great  address 
at  the  great  Mosque  of  Omaiyah. 

Meanwhile,  the  blatant  Officer,  the  wheedling 
Politician,  and  the  lack-beard  Dervish,  are  feasted  by 
the  personages  and  functionaries  of  Damascus.  The 
[291] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

Vali,  the  Mufti,  Abdallah  Pasha, —  he  who  owns 
more  than  two  score  villages  and  has  more  than  five 
thousand  braves  at  his  beck  and  call, —  these,  and 
others  of  less  standing,  vie  with  each  other  in  honour- 
ing the  distinguished  visitors.  And  after  the  ban- 
queting, while  Ahmed  Bey  retires  to  a  private  room 
with  his  host  to  discuss  the  political  situation,  Khalid, 
to  escape  the  torturing  curiosity  of  the  bores  and 
quidnuncs  of  the  evening,  goes  out  to  the  open  court, 
and  under  an  orange  tree,  around  the  gurgling  foun- 
tain, breathes  again  of  quietude  and  peace.  Nay, 
breathes  deeply  of  the  heavy  perfume  of  the  white 
jasmines  of  his  country,  while  musing  of  the  scarlet 
salvias  of  a  distant  land. 

And  what  if  the  salvia,  as  by  a  miracle,  blossoms 
on  the  jasmine?  What  if  the  former  stifles  the  lat- 
ter? Indeed,  one  can  escape  boredom,  but  not  love. 
One  can  flee  the  quidnuncs  of  the  salon,  but  not  the 
questioning  perplexity  of  one's  heart.  A  truce  now 
to  ambiguities. 

'Tis  high  time  that  we  give  a  brief  account  of  what 
took  place  after  Khalid  took  leave  of  Mrs.  Gotfry. 
Many  "  devilish  mischances "  have  since  then  con- 
spired against  Khalid's  peace  of  mind.  For  when 
they  were  leaving  Beirut,  only  a  few  minutes  before 
the  train  started,  Mrs.  Gotfry,  who  was  also  going  to 
Damascus,  steps  into  the  same  carriage,  which  he  and 
his  companions  occupied:  mischance  first.  Arriving 
in  Damascus  they  both  stay  at  the  same  Hotel:  mis- 
chance second.  At  table  this  time  he  occupies  the  seat 
next  to  hers,  and  once,  rising  simultaneously,  their 
[292] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

limbs  touch:  mischance  third.  And  the  last  and 
worst,  when  he  retires  to  his  room,  he  finds  that  her 
own  is  in  the  same  side-hall  opposite  to  his.  Now,  who 
could  have  ordered  it  thus,  of  all  the  earthly  powers? 
And  who  can  say  what  so  many  mischances  might  not 
produce?  True,  a  thousand  thistles  do  not  make  a 
rose;  but  with  destiny  this  logic  does  not  hold.  For 
every  new  mischance  makes  us  forget  the  one  pre- 
ceding; and  the  last  and  worst  is  bound  to  be  the  har- 
binger of  good  fortune.  Yes,  every  people,  we 
imagine,  has  its  aphorisms  on  the  subject:  Distress  is 
the  key  of  relief,  saj's  the  Arabic  proverb;  The  strait 
leads  to  the  plain,  says  the  Chinese;  The  darkest  hour 
is  nearest  the  dawn,  says  the  English. 

But  we  must  not  make  any  stipulations  with  time, 
or  trust  in  aphorisms.  We  do  not  know  what  Mrs. 
Gotfry's  ideas  are  on  the  subject.  Nor  can  we  say 
how  she  felt  in  the  face  of  these  strange  coincidences. 
In  her  religious  heart,  might  there  not  be  some  shadow 
of  an  ancient  superstition,  some  mystical,  instinctive 
strain,  in  which  the  preternatural  is  resolved?  That 
is  a  question  which  neither  our  Scribe  nor  his  Master 
will  help  us  to  answer.  And  we,  having  been  faith- 
ful so  far  in  the  discharge  of  our  editorial  duty,  can 
not  at  this  juncture  aliford  to  fabricate. 

We  know,  however,  that  the  Priestess  of  Buhaism 
and  the  beardless,  long-haired  Dervish  have  many  a 
conversation  together:  in  the  train,  in  the  Hotel,  in 
the  parks  and  groves  of  Damascus,  they  tap  their 
hearts  and  minds,  and  drink  of  each  other's  wine  of 
thought  and  fancy. 

I  293  ]' 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

"  I  first  mistook  you  for  a  Mohammedan,"  she  said 
to  him  once;  and  he  assured  her  that  she  was  not  mis- 
taken. 

*'  Then,  you  are  not  a  Christian  ?  " 

"  I  am  a  Christian,  too. 

And  he  relates  of  the  Buha  when  he  was  on  trial 
in  Rhodes.  "  Of  what  religion  are  you,"  asks  the 
Judge.  "  I  am  neither  a  Camel-driver  nor  a  Carpen- 
ter," replies  the  Buha,  alluding  thereby  to  Mohammad 
and  Christ.  "  If  j^ou  ask  me  the  same  question," 
Khalid  continues  — "  but  I  see  you  are  uncomfort- 
able." And  he  takes  up  the  cushion  which  had  fallen 
behind  the  divan,  and  places  it  under  her  arm.  He 
then  lights  a  cigarette  and  holds  it  up  to  her  inquir- 
ingly. Yes?  He,  therefore,  lights  another  for  him- 
self, and  continues.  "If  you  ask  me  the  same  ques- 
tion that  was  asked  the  Buha,  I  would  not  hesitate  in 
saying  that  I  am  both  a  Camel-driver  and  Carpenter. 
I  might  also  be  a  Buhaist  in  a  certain  sense.  I  re- 
nounce falsehood,  whatsoever  be  the  guise  it  assumes; 
and  I  embrace  truth,  wheresoever  I  find  it.  Indeed, 
every  religion  is  good  and  true,  if  it  serves  the  high 
purpose  of  its  founder.  And  they  are  false,  all  of 
them,  when  they  serve  the  low  purpose  of  their  high 
priests.  Take  the  lowest  of  the  Arab  tribes,  for  in- 
stance, and  you  will  find  in  their  truculent  spirit  a 
strain  of  faith  sublime,  though  it  is  only  evinced  at 
times.  The  Beduins,  rovers  and  raveners,  manslay- 
ers  and  thieves,  are  in  their  house  of  moe-hair  the  kind- 
est hosts,  the  noblest  and  most  generous  of  men. 
They  receive  the  wayfarer,  though  he  be  an  enemy, 
[294] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

and  he  eats  and  drinks  and  sleeps  with  them  under 
the  same  roof,  in  the  assurance  of  Allah.  If  a  re- 
ligion makes  a  savage  so  good,  so  kind,  it  has  well 
served  its  purpose.  As  for  me,  I  admire  the  grand 
passion  in  both  the  Camel-driver  and  the  Carpenter: 
the  barbaric  grandeur,  the  magnanimity  and  fidelity 
of  the  Arab  as  well  as  the  sublime  spirituality,  the 
divine  beauty,  of  the  Nazarene,  I  deeply  reverence. 
And  in  one  sense,  the  one  is  the  complement  of  the 
other:  the  two  combined  are  my  ideal  of  a  Divinity.' 
And  now  we  descend  from  the  chariot  of  the 
empyrean  where  we  are  riding  with  gods  and  apostles, 
and  enter  into  one  drawn  by  mortal  coursers.  We  go 
out  for  a  drive,  and  alight  from  the  carriage  in  the 
poplar  grove,  to  meander  in  its  shades,  along  its  streams. 

But  digressing  from  one  path  into  another,  we  enter 
unaware    the    eternal    vista    of    love.     There,    on    a 

boulder   washed   by   the   murmuring   current,    in    the 

shade  of  the  silver-tufted  poplars,  Khalid  and  Mrs. 

Gotfry  sit  down  for  a  rest. 

"  Everything  in  life  must  always  resolve  itself  into 

love,"  said  Khalid,  as  he  stood  on  the  rock  holding  out 

his  hand  to  his  friend.     "  Love  is  the  divine  solvent. 

Love  is  the  splendour  of  God." 

Mrs.   Gotfry  paused   at   the  last  words.     She  was 

startled  by  this  image.     Love,  the  splendour  of  God? 

Why,  the  Bab,  the  Buha,   is  the  splendour  of  God. 

Buha  mean  splendour.     The  Buha,  therefore,  is  love. 

Love  is  the  new  religion.     It  is  the  old  religion,  the 

eternal  religion,  the  only  religion.     How  came  he  by 

this,  this  young  Syrian?     Would  he  rival  the  Buha? 
[295] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

Rise  above  him  ?  They  are  of  kindred  races  —  their 
ancestors,  too,  may  be  mine.  Love  the  splendour  of 
God  —  God  the  splendour  of  Love.  Have  I  been 
all  along  fooling  myself?  Did  I  not  know  my  own 
heart  ? 

These,  and  more  such,  passed  through  Mrs.  Got- 
fry's  mind,  as  shuttles  through  a  loom,  while  Khalid 
was  helping  her  up  to  her  seat  on  the  boulder,  which 
is  washed  by  the  murmuring  current. 

"  If  life  were  such  a  rock  under  our  feet,"  said  he, 
pressing  his  lips  upon  her  hand,  "  the  divine  currents 
around  it  will  melt  it,  soon  or  late,  into  love." 

They  light  cigarettes.  A  fresh  breeze  is  blowing 
from  the  city.  It  is  following  them  with  the  per- 
fume of  its  gardens.  The  falling  leaves  are  whisper- 
ing in  the  grove  to  the  swaying  boughs.  The  nar- 
cissus is  nodding  to  the  myrtle  across  the  way.  And 
the  bulbuls  are  pouring  their  golden  splendour  of 
song.     Khalid  speaks. 

"  Beauty  either  detains,  repels,  or  enchants.  The 
first  is  purely  external,  linear;  the  second  is  an  imita- 
tion of  the  first,  its  artistic  artificial  ideal,  so  to  speak; 
and  the  third  " — He  is  silent.  His  eyes,  gazing  into 
hers,  take  up  the  cue. 

Mrs.  Gotfry  turns  from  him  exhausted.  She  looks 
into  the  water. 

"  See  the  rose-beds  in  the  stream ;  see  the  lovely 
pebbles  dancing  around  them." 

"  I  can  see  everything  in  your  eyes,  which  are  like 
limpid  lakes  shaded  with  weeping-willows.  I  can 
even  hear  bulbuls  singing  in  your  brows. —  Turn  not 
[296] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

from  me  your  eyes.  They  reflect  the  pearls  of  your 
soul  and  the  flowers  of  your  body,  even  as  those 
crystal  waters  reflect  the  pebbles  and  rose-beds  be- 
neath." 

"Did  you  not  say  that  love  is  the  splendour  of 
God?" 

"  Yes." 

"Then,  why  look  for  it  in  my  eyes?" 

"  And  why  look  for  it  in  the  heart  of  the  heavens, 
in  the  depths  of  the  sea  —  in  the  infinities  of  every- 
thing that  is  beautiful  and  terrible  —  in  the  breath 
of  that  little  flower,  in  the  song  of  the  bulbul,  in  the 
whispers  of  your  silken  lashes,  in  —  " 

"  Shut  your  eyes,  Khalid ;  be  more  spiritual." 

**  With  my  eyes  open  I  see  but  one  face ;  with  my 
eyes  closed  I  see  a  million  faces:  they  are  all  yours. 
And  they  are  loving,  and  sweet,  and  kind.  But  I  am 
content  with  one,  with  the  carnate  symbol  of  them, 
with  you,  and  though  you  be  cold  and  cruel.  The 
divine  splendour  is  here,  and   here  and  here — " 

"  Why,  your  ardour  is  exhausting." 

But  on  their  way  back  to  the  Hotel,  Khalid  gives 
her  this  from  Swedenborg:  "  *  Do  you  love  me '  means 
*  do  you  see  the  same  truth  that  I  see?'" 

There  is  no  use.     Khalid  is  impossible. 


[297] 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  DREAM  OF  EMPIRE 

*'T'M  not  starving  for  pleasure,"  Khalid  once  said 
to  Shakib ;  "  nor  for  the  light  free  love  of  an 
exquisite  caprice.  Those  little  flowers  that  bloom  and 
v^uther  in  the  blush  of  dawn  are  for  the  little  butter- 
flies. The  love  that  endures,  give  me  that.  And  it 
must  be  of  the  deepest  divine  strain, —  as  deep  and 
divine  as  maternal  love.  Man  is  of  Eternity,  not  of 
Time;  and  love,  the  highest  attribute  of  man,  must 
be  likewise.  With  me  it  must  endure  throughout  all 
worlds  and  immensities;  else  I  would  not  raise  a 
finger  for  it.  Pleasure,  Shakib,  is  for  the  child  within 
us;  sexual  joy,  for  the  animal;  love,  for  the  god. 
That  is  why  I  say  when  you  set  your  seal  to  the  con- 
tract, be  sure  it  is  of  the  kind  which  all  the  gods  of 
all  the  future  worlds  will  raise  to  their  lips  in  rever- 
ence." 

But  Khalid's  child-spirit,  not  to  say  childishness,  is 
not,  as  he  would  have  us  believe,  a  thing  of  the  past. 
Nor  are  the  animal  and  the  god  within  him  always 
agreed  as  to  what  is  and  what  is  not  a  love  divine  and 
eternal.  In  New  York,  to  be  sure,  he  often  brushed 
his  wings  against  those  flowerets  that  "  bloom  and 
wither  in  the  blush  of  dawn."  And  he  was  not  a 
little  pleased  to  find  that  the  dust  which  gathers  on 
[298] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

the  wings  adds  a  charm  to  the  colouring  of  life.  But 
how  false  and  trivial  it  was,  after  all.  The  gold  dust 
and  the  dust  of  the  road,  could  they  withstand  a  drop 
of  rain  ?  A  love  dust-deep,  as  it  were,  close  to  the 
earth;  too  mean  and  pitiful  to  be  carried  by  the  storm 
over  terrible  abysses  to  glorious  heights.  A  love,  in 
a  word,  without  pain,  that  is  to  say  impure.  In 
Baalbek,  on  the  other  hand,  he  drank  deep  of  the  pain, 
but  not  of  the  joy,  of  love.  He  and  his  cousin 
Najma  had  just  lit  in  the  shrine  of  Venus  the  candles 
of  the  altar  of  the  Virgin,  when  a  villainous  hand  that 
of  Jesuitry,  issuing  from  the  darkness,  clapped  over 
them  the  snuffer  and  carried  his  Happiness  off.  Here 
was  a  love  divine,  the  promised  bliss  of  which  was 
snatched  away  from  him. 

And  now  in  Damascus,  he  feels,  for  the  first  time, 
the  exquisite  pain  and  joy  of  a  love  which  he  can  not 
yet  fathom ;  a  love,  which  like  the  storm,  is  carrying 
him  over  terrible  abysses  to  unknown  heights.  The 
bitter  sting  of  a  Nay  he  never  felt  so  keenly  before. 
The  sleep-stifling  torture  and  joy  of  suspense  he  did 
not  fully  experience  until  now.  But  if  he  can  not 
sleep,  he  will  work.  He  has  but  a  few  days  to  pre- 
pare his  address.  He  can  not  be  too  careful  of  what 
he  says,  and  how  he  says  it.  To  speak  at  the  great 
Mosque  of  Omaiyah  is  a  great  privilege.  A  word 
uttered  there  will  reach  the  furthermost  parts  of  the 
Mohammedan  world.  Moreover,  all  the  ulema  and 
all   the  hcavy-turbaned   fanatics  will  be   there. 

But  he  can  not  even  work.  On  the  table  before 
him  is  a  pile  of  newspapers  from  all  parts  of  Syria 
[299] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

and  Egypt  —  even  from  India  —  and  all  simmering, 
as  it  were,  with  Khalid's  name,  and  Khalidism,  and 
Khalid  scandals.  He  Is  hailed  by  some,  assailed  by 
others;  glorified  and  vilified  in  tawdry  rhyme  and 
ponderous  prose  by  Christians  and  Mohammedans 
alike.  "  Our  new  Muhdl,"  wrote  an  Egyptian  wit 
(one  of  those  pallid  prosers  we  once  met  in  the 
hasheesh  dens,  no  doubt),  "our  new  Muhdi  has 
added  to  his  hareem  an  American  beauty  with  an 
Oriental  leg." 

What  he  meant  by  this  only  the  hasheesh  smok- 
ers know.  "  An  Instrument  In  the  hands  of  some 
American  speculators,  who  would  build  sky-scrap- 
ers on  the  ruins  of  our  mosques,"  wrote  another. 
"  A  lever  with  which  England  Is  undermining  Al- 
Islam,"  cried  a  voice  in  India.  "  A  base  one  in  the 
service  of  some  European  coalition,  who,  under  the 
pretext  of  preaching  the  spiritualities,  Is  undoing  the 
work  of  the  Revolution.  The  gibbet  Is  for  ordinary 
traitors;  for  him  the  stake,"  etc.,  etc. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  Is  hailed  as  the  expected 
one, —  the  true  leader,  the  real  emancipator, — "  who 
has  In  him  the  soul  of  the  East  and  the  mind  of  the 
West,  the  builder  of  a  great  Asiatic  Empire."  Of 
course,  the  foolish  Damascene  editor  who  wrote  this 
had  to  flee  the  country  the  following  day.  But 
Khalid's  eyes  lingered  on  that  line.  He  read  It  and 
reread  It  over  and  over  again  —  forward  and  back- 
ward, too.     He  juggled,  so  to  speak,  with  Its  words. 

How  often  people  put  us,  though  unwittingly,  on 
the  path  we  are  seeking,  he  thought.  How  often 
[300] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

does  a  chance  word  uttered  by  a  stranger  reveal  to  us 
our  deepest  aims  and  purposes. 

Before  him  was  ink  and  paper.  He  took  up  the 
pen.  But  after  scrawling  and  scribbling  for  ten 
minutes,  the  sheet  was  filled  with  circles  and  ara- 
besques, and  the  one  single  word  Dowla  (Empire). 

He  could  not  think:  he  could  only  dream.  The 
soul  of  the  East  —  The  mind  of  the  West  —  the 
builder  of  a  great  Empire.  The  triumph  of  the  Idea, 
the  realisation  of  a  great  dream:  the  rise  of  a  great 
race  who  has  fallen  on  evil  days;  the  renaissance  of 
Arabia;  the  reclaiming  of  her  land;  the  resuscitation 
of  her  glory ;  —  and  why  not  ?  especially  if  backed 
with  American  millions  and  the  love  of  a  great 
woman.  He  is  enraptured.  He  can  neither  sleep 
nor  think:  he  can  but  dream.  He  puts  on  his  jubbah, 
refills  his  cigarette  box,  and  walks  out  of  his  room. 
He  paces  up  and  down  the  hall,  crowning  his  dream 
with  wreaths  of  smoke.  But  the  dim  lights  seemed 
to  be  ogling  each  other  and  smiling,  as  he  passed. 
The  clocks  seemed  to  be  casting  pebbles  at  him.  The 
silence  horrified  him.  He  pauses  before  a  door.  He 
knocks  —  knocks  again. 

The  occupant  of  that  room  was  not  yet  asleep.  In 
fact,  she,  too,  could  not  sleep.  The  clock  in  the  hall 
outside  had  just  struck  one,  and  she  was  yet  reading. 
After  inquiring  who  it  was  that  knocked,  she  puts  on 
a  kimono  and  opens  the  door.     She  is  surprised. 

"  Anything  the  matter  with  you  ?  " 

"No;  but  I  can  not  sleep." 

"  That  is  amusing.  And  do  you  take  me  for  a 
[301] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

soporific?  If  you  think  you  can  sleep  here,  stretch 
yourself  on  the  couch  and  try."  Saying  which,  she 
laughed  and  hurried  back  to  her  bed. 

"  I  did  not  come  to  sleep." 

"  What  then  ?  How  lovely  of  you  to  wake  me  up 
so  early. —  No,  no ;  don't  apologise.  For  truly,  I 
too,  could  not  sleep.  You  see,  I  was  still  reading. 
Sit  on  the  couch  there  and  talk  to  me. —  Of  course, 
you  may  smoke. —  No,  I  prefer  to  sit  in  bed." 

Khalid  lights  another  cigarette  and  sits  down.  On 
the  table  before  him  are  some  antique  colour  prints 
which  Mrs.  Gotfry  had  bought  in  the  Bazaar.  These 
one  can  only  get  in  Damascus.  And  —  strange  co- 
incidence !  —  they  represented  some  of  the  heroes  of 
Arabia  —  Antar,  Ali,  Saladin,  Harun  ar-Rashid  — 
done  in  gorgeous  colouring,  and  in  that  deliciously 
ludicrous  angular  style  which  is  neither  Arabic  nor 
Egyptian,  but  a  combination  perhaps  of  both.  Kha- 
lid reads  the  poetry  under  each  of  them  and  translates 
it  into  English.  Mrs.  Gotfry  is  charmed.  Khalid 
is  lost  in  thought.  He  lays  the  picture  of  Saladin  on 
the  table,  lights  another  cigarette,  looks  intently  upon 
his  friend,  his  face  beaming  with  his  dream. 

"  Jamilah."  It  was  the  first  time  he  called  her  by 
her  first  name  —  an  Arabic  name  which,  as  a  Bahaist 
she  had  adopted.  And  she  was  neither  surprised  nor 
displeased. 

"  We  need  another  Saladin  to-day, —  a  Saladin  of 
the    Idea,    who    will    wage    a    crusade,    not    against 
Christianity   or   Mohammedanism,    but    against    those 
Tataric  usurpers  who  are  now  toadying  to  both." 
[302] 


IN     KULMAKAN 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  the  Turks.  They  were  given  a  last 
chance  to  rise;  they  tried  and  failed.  They  can  not 
rise.  They  are  demoralised ;  they  have  no  stamina, 
no  character;  no  inborn  love  for  truth  and  art;  no 
instinctive  or  acquired  sense  of  right  and  justice. 
Whiskey  and  debauch  and  high-sounding  inanities 
about  fraternity  and  equality  can  not  regenerate  an 
Empire.  The  Turk  must  go:  he  will  go.  But  out 
in  those  deserts  is  a  race  which  is  always  young,  a  race 
that  never  withers;  a  strong,  healthy,  keen-eyed, 
quick-witted  race;  a  fighting,  fanatical  race;  a  race 
that  gave  Europe  a  civilisation,  that  gave  the  world 
a  religion;  a  race  with  a  past  as  glorious  as  Rome's; 
and  with  a  future,  too,  if  we  had  an  Ali  or  a  Saladin. 
But  He  who  made  those  heroes  will  make  others  like 
them,  better,  too.  He  may  have  made  one  already, 
and  that  one  may  be  wandering  now  in  the  desert. 
Now  think  what  can  be  done  in  Arabia,  think  what 
the  Arabs  can  accomplish,  if  American  arms  and  an 
up-to-date  Koran  are  spread  broadcast  among  them. 
With  my  worcls  and  your  love  and  influence,  with  our 
powers  united,  we  can  build  an  Arab  Empire,  we  can 
resuscitate  the  Arab  Empire  of  the  past.  Abd'ul- 
Wahhab,  you  know,  is  the  Luther  of  Arabia;  and 
Wahhabism  is  not  dead.  It  is  only  slumbering  in 
Nejd.  We  will  wake  it;  arm  it;  infuse  into  it  the 
living  spirit  of  the  Idea.  We  will  begin  by  building 
a  plant  for  the  manufacture  of  arms  on  the  shore  of 
the  Euphrates,  and  a  University  in  Yaman.  The 
Turk  must  go  —  at  least  out  of  Arabia.  And  the 
[303] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

Turk  in  Europe,  Europe  will  look  after.  No;  the 
Arab  will  never  be  virtually  conquered.  Nominally, 
maybe.  And  I  doubt  if  any  of  the  European  Powers 
can  do  It.  Why?  Chiefly  because  Arabia  has  a 
Prophet.  She  produced  one  and  she  will  produce 
more.  Cannons  can  destroy  Empires;  but  only  the 
living  voice,  the  inspired  voice  can  build  them." 

Mrs.  Gotfry  is  silent.  In  Khalid's  vagaries  is  a 
big  idea,  which  she  can  not  wholly  grasp.  And  she 
is  moreover  devoted  to  another  cause  —  the  light  of 
the  world  —  the  splendour  of  God  —  Buhaism.  But 
why  not  spread  it  in  Arabia  as  in  America?  She  will 
talk  to  Ebbas  Effendi  about  Khalid.  He  is  young, 
eloquent,  rising  to  power.  And  with  her  love,  and 
influence  superadded,  what  might  he  not  do?  what 
might  he  not  accomplish?  These  ideas  flashed 
through  her  mind,  while  Khalid  was  pacing  up  and 
down  the  room,  which  was  already  filled  with  smoke. 
She  is  absorbed  in  thought.  Khalid  comes  near  her 
bed,  bends  over  her,  and  buries  his  face  in  her  wealth 
of  black  hair. 

Mrs.  Gotfry  is  startled  as  from  a  dream. 

"  I  can  not  see  all  that  you  see." 

"  Then  you  do  not  love  me." 

"Why  do  you  say  that?  Here,  now  go  sit  down. 
Oh,  I  am  suffocating.  The  smoke  is  so  thick  in  the 
room  I  can  scarcely  see  you.  And  it  is  so  late. —  No, 
no.  Give  me  time  to  think  on  the  subject.  Now, 
come." 

And  Mrs.  Gotfry  opens  the  door  and  the  window 
to  let  out  Khalid  and  his  smoke. 
[304] 


IN     KULMAKAN 

"  Go,  Khalid,  and  try  to  sleep.  And  if  you  can 
not  sleep,  try  to  write.  And  if  you  can  not  write, 
read.  And  if  you  can  neither  read  nor  write  nor 
sleep,  why,  then,  put  on  your  shoes  and  go  out  for  a 
walk.  Good  night.  There.  Good  night.  But  don't 
forget,  we  must  visit  Sheikh  Taleb  to-morrow." 

The  astute  Mrs.  Gotfry  might  have  added.  And  if 
you  do  not  feel  like  walking,  take  a  dip  in  the  River 
Barada.  But  in  her  words,  to  be  sure,  were  a 
douche  cold  enough  for  Khalid.  Now,  to  be  just  and 
comprehensive  in  our  History  we  must  record  here 
that  she,  too,  did  not,  and  could  not  sleep  that  night. 
The  thought  that  Khalid  would  make  a  good  apostle 
of  Buhaism  and  incidentally  a  good  companion,  in- 
sinuated itself  between  the  lines  on  every  page  of  the 
book  she  was  trying  to  read. 

On  the  following  day  they  visit  Sheikh  Taleb,  who 
is  introduced  to  us  by  Shakib  in  these  words: 

"  A  Muslem,  like  Socrates,  who  educates  not  by  les- 
son, but  by  going  about  his  business.  He  seldom  deigns 
to  write ;  and  yet,  his  words  are  quoted  by  every  writer 
of  the  day,  and  on  every  subject  sacred  and  profane. 
His  good  is  truly  magnetic.  He  is  a  man  who  lives 
after  his  own  mind  and  in  his  own  robes;  an  Arab 
who  prays  after  no  Imam,  but  directly  to  Allah  and 
his  Apostle;  a  scholar  who  has  more  dryasdust  knowl- 
edge on  his  finger  ends  than  all  the  ulema  of  Cairo 
and  Damascus ;  a  philosopher  who  would  not  give  an 
orange  peel  for  the  opinion  of  the  world ;  an  ascetic 
who  flees  celebrity  as  he  would  the  plague;  a  sage 
who  does  not  disdain  to  be  a  pedagogue ;  an  eccentric 
[305] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

withal  to  amuse  even  a  Diogenes: — this  is  the  noted 
Sheikh  Taleb  of  Damascus,  whom  Mrs.  Gotfry  once 
met  at  Ebbas  Effendy's  in  Akka,  and  whom  she  was 
desirous  of  meeting  again.  When  we  first  went  to 
visit  him,  this  charming  lady  and  Khalid  and  I,  we 
had  to  knock  at  the  door  until  his  neighbour  peered 
from  one  of  the  windows  above  and  told  us  that  the 
Sheikh  is  asleep,  and  that  if  we  would  see  him,  we 
must  come  in  the  evening.  I  learned  afterwards  that 
he,  reversing  the  habitual  practice  of  mankind,  works 
at  night  and  sleeps  during  the  day. 

"  We  return  in  the  evening.  And  the  Sheikh,  with 
a  lamp  in  his  hand,  peers  through  a  small  square  open- 
ing in  the  door  to  see  who  is  knocking.  He  knew 
neither  Khalid  nor  myself;  but  Mrs.  Gotfry  — 
*  Eigh ! '  he  mused.  And  as  he  beheld  her  face  in 
the  lamplight  he  exclaimed  '  Marhaba  (welcome) ! 
Marhaba ! '  and  hastened  to  unbolt  the  door.  We 
are  shown  through  a  dark,  narrow  hall,  into  a  small 
court,  up  to  his  study.  Which  is  a  three-walled 
room  —  a  sort  of  stage  —  opening  on  the  court,  and 
innocent  of  a  divan  or  a  settle  or  a  chair.  While  he 
and  Mrs.  Gotfry  were  exchanging  greetings  in  Per- 
sian, I  was  wondering  why  in  Damascus,  the  city  of 
seven  rivers  and  of  poetry  and  song,  should  there  be  a 
court  guilty  like  this  one  of  a  dry  and  dilapidated 
fountain.  I  learned  afterwards,  however,  that  the 
Sheikh  can  not  tolerate  the  noise  of  the  water;  and 
so,  suffering  from  thirst  and  neglect,  the  fountain 
goes  to  ruin. 

"  On  the  stage,  which  is  the  study,  is  a  clutter  of 
[306] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

old  books  and  pamphlets;  In  the  corner  is  the  usual 
straw  mat,  a  cushion,  and  a  sort  of  stool  on  which 
are  ink  and  paper.  This  he  clears,  places  the  cushion 
upon  it,  and  offers  to  JMrs.  Gotfry;  he  himself  sits 
down  on  the  mat;  and  we  are  invited  to  arrange  for 
ourselves  some  books.  Indeed,  the  Sheikh  is  right; 
most  of  these  tomes  are  good  for  nothing  else. 

"  Mrs.  Gotfry  introduces  us. 

"  '  Ah,  but  thou  art  young  and  short  of  stature,'  said 
he  to  Khalid ;  '  that  is  ominous.  Verily,  there  is 
danger  in  thy  path.' 

"  '  But  he  will  embrace  Buhaism,*  put  in  Mrs.  Got- 
fry. 

"  *  That  might  save  him.  Buhaism  is  the  old  torch, 
relighted  after  many  centuries,  by  Allah.' 

"  Meanwhile  Khalid  was  thinking  of  second-hand 
Jerry  of  the  second-hand  book-shop  of  New  York. 
The  Sheikh  reminded  him  of  his  old  friend. 

"  And  I  was  holding  in  my  hand  a  book  on  which 
I  chanced  while  arranging  my  seat.  It  was  Debrett's 
Baronetage,  Knightage,  and  Companionage.  How  did 
such  a  book  find  its  way  into  the  Sheikh's  rubbish, 
I  wondered.     But  birds  of  a  feather,  thought  I. 

"  '  That  book  was  sent  to  me,'  said  he,  '  by  a  mer- 
chant friend,  who  found  it  in  the  Bazaar.  They  send 
me  all  kinds  of  books,  these  simple  of  heart.  They 
think  I  can  read  in  all  languages  and  discourse  on  all 
subjects.     Allah  forgive  them.' 

"  And  when  I  tell  him,  in  reply  to  his  inquiry,  that 
the  book  treats  of  Titles,  Orders,  and  Degrees  of  Pre- 
cedence, he  utters  a  sharp  whew,  and  with  a  quick 
[307] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

gesture  of  weariness  and  disgust,  tells  me  to  take  it. 
'  I  have  my  head  full  of  our  own  ansab  (pedigrees),' 
he  adds,  *  and  I  have  no  more  respect  for  a  green  tur- 
ban (the  colour  of  the  Muslem  nobility)  than  I  have 
for  this  one,'  pointing  to  his,  which  is  white. 

"  Mrs.  Gotfry  then  asks  the  Sheikh  what  he  thinks 
of  Wahhabism. 

"  *  It  is  Islam  in  its  pristine  purity ;  it  is  the  Islam 
of  the  first  great  Khalifs.  "  Mohammed  is  dead ;  but 
Allah  lives,"  said  Abu  Bekr  to  the  people  on  the  death 
of  the  Prophet.  And  Wahhabism  is  a  direct  tele- 
graph wire  between  mortal  man  and  his  God. 

"  '  But  why  should  these  Wahhabis  of  Nejd  be  the 
most  fanatical,  when  their  doctrines  are  the  most 
pure  ?  '  asked  Khalid. 

"  *  In  thy  question  is  the  answer  to  it.  They  are 
fanatical  because  of  their  purity  of  doctrine,  and 
withal  because  they  live  in  Nejd.  If  there  were  a 
Wahhabi  sect  in  Barr'ush-Sham  (Syria),  it  would  not 
be  thus,  assure  thee.' 

"  And  expressing  his  liking  for  Khalid,  he  advises 
him  to  be  careful  of  his  utterances  in  Damascus,  if  he 
believes  in  self-preservation.  *  I  am  old,'  he  con- 
tinues ;  *  and  the  ulema  do  not  think  my  flesh  is  good 
for  sacrifice.  But  thou  art  young,  and  plump  —  a 
tender  yearling  —  ah,  be  careful  sheikh  Khalid. 
Then,  I  do  not  talk  to  the  people  direct.  I  talk  to 
them  through  holy  men  and  dervishes.  The  people 
do  not  believe  in  a  philosopher;  but  the  holy  man,  and 
though  he  attack  the  most  sacred  precepts  of  the 
Faith,  they  will  believe.  And  Damascus  is  the  very 
[308] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

hive  of  turbans,  green  and  otherwise.  So  guard  thee, 
my  child.' 

"  Mrs.  Gotfry  then  asks  for  a  minute's  privacy  with 
the  Sheikh.  And  before  he  withdraws  with  her  to  the 
court,  he  searches  through  a  heap  of  mouldy  tomes, 
draws  from  beneath  them  a  few  yellow  pamphlets  on 
the  Comparative  Study  of  the  Semetic  Alphabets  and 
on  The  Rights  of  the  Khalifate  —  such  is  the  scope  of 
his  learning — 'and  dusting  these  on  his  knee,  presents 
them  to  us,  saying,  *  Judge  us  not  severely.' 

"  This  does  not  mean  that  he  cares  much  if  we  do 
or  not.  But  in  our  country,  in  the  Orient,  even  a 
Diogenes  does  not  disdain  to  handle  the  coin  of  affa- 
bility. We  are  always  meekly  asked,  even  by  the  most 
supercilious,    to   overlook   shortcomings,   and   condone. 

"  I  could  not  in  passing  out,  however,  overlook 
the  string  of  orange  peels  which  hung  on  a  pole  in  the 
court.  Nor  am  I  sensible  of  an  indecorum  if  I  give 
out  that  the  Sheikh  lives  on  oranges,  and  preserves 
the  peels  for  kindling  the  fire.  And  this,  his  only 
article  of  food,  he  buys  at  wholesale,  like  his  robes 
and  undergarments.  For  he  never  changes  or  washes 
anything.  A  robe  is  worn  continually,  worn  out  in 
the  run,  and  discarded.  He  no  more  believes  in  the 
efficacy  of  soap  than  in  the  efficacy  of  a  good  reputa- 
tion. *  The  good  opinion  of  men,'  he  says,  *  does  not 
wash  our  hearts  and  minds.  And  if  these  be  clean, 
all's  clean.' 

"  That  is  why,  I  think,  he  struck  once  with  his  staff 
a  journalist  for  inserting  in  his  paper  a  laudatory  notice 
on  the  Sheikh's  system  of  living  and  thinking  and 
[309] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

speaking  of  him  as  *  a  deep  ocean  of  learning  and  wis- 
dom.' Even  in  travelling  he  carries  nothing  with 
him  but  his  staff,  that  he  might  the  quicker  flee,  or 
put  to  flight,  the  vulgar  curious.  He  puts  on  a  few 
extra  robes,  when  he  is  going  on  a  journey,  and  in 
time,  becoming  threadbare,  sheds  them  off  as  the  ser- 
pent its  skin.     ..." 

And  we  pity  our  Scribe  if  he  ever  goes  back  to 
Damascus  after  this,  and  the  good  Sheikh  chances  upon 
him. 


[310] 


i 


CHAPTER  Viri 

ADUMBRATIONS 

*'T  N  the  morning  of  the  eventful  day,"  it  is  set 
forth  in  the  Histeire  Intime,  "  I  was  in  Kha- 
Hd's  room  writing  a  letter,  when  Ahmed  Bey  comes 
in  to  confer  with  him.  They  remain  together  for 
some  while  during  which  I  could  hear  Khalid  growl 
and  Ahmed  Bey  gently  whispering,  *  But  the  Dastur, 
the  Unionists,  Mother  Society,' — this  being  the  bur- 
den of  his  song.  When  he  leaves,  Khalid,  with  a 
scowl  on  his  brow,  paces  up  and  down  the  room, 
saying,  '  They  would  treat  me  like  a  school  boy ;  they 
would  have  me  speak  by  rule,  and  according  to  their 
own  dictation.  They  even  espy  my  words  and  ac- 
tions as  if  I  were  an  enemy  of  the  Constitution.  No; 
let  them  find  another.  The  servile  spouters  in  the 
land  are  as  plenty  as  summer  flies.  After  I  deliver 
my  address  to-day,  Shakib,  we  will  take  the  first  train 
for  Baalbek.  I  want  to  see  my  mother.  No,  bil- 
lah!  I  can  not  go  any  further  with  these  Turks. 
Why,  read  this.'  And  he  hands  me  the  memoran- 
dum, or  outline  of  the  speech  given  to  him  by  Ahmed 
Bey." 

And  this,  we  learn,  is  a  litany  of  praises,  beginning 
with   Abd'ul-Hamid   and   ending   with   the   ulema   of 
Damascus;  which  litany  the  Society  Deputies  would 
[311] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

place  in  the  mouth  of  Khalid  for  the  good  of  all  con- 
cerned. Ay,  for  his  good,  too,  if  he  but  knew.  If 
he  but  looked  behind  him,  he  would  have  yielded  a 
whit,  this  Khalid.  The  deep  chasm  between  him  and 
the  Deputy,  however,  justifies  the  conduct  of  each  on 
his  side:  the  lack  of  gumption  in  the  one  and  the  lack 
of  depth  in  the  other  render  impossible  any  sort  of 
understanding  between  them.  While  we  recommend, 
therefore,  the  prudence  of  the  oleaginous  Ahmed,  we 
can  not  with  justice  condemn  the  perversity  of  our 
fretful  Khalid.  For  he  who  makes  loud  boast  of 
spiritual  freedom,  is,  nevertheless,  a  slave  of  the  Idea. 
And  slavery  in  some  shape  or  shade  will  clutch  at 
the  heart  of  the  most  powerful  and  most  developed 
of  mortals.  Poor  Khalid !  if  Truth  commands  thee 
to  destroy  the  memorandum  of  Ahmed  Bey,  Wisdom 
suggests  that  thou  destroy,  too,  thine  address.  And 
Wisdom  in  the  person  of  Sheikh  Taleb  now  knocks 
at  thy  door. 

The  Sheikh  is  come  to  admonish  Khalid,  not  to 
return  his  visit.  For  at  this  hour  of  the  day  he 
should  have  been  a-bed ;  but  his  esteem  for  Mrs.  Got- 
fry,  billah,  his  love,  too,  for  her  friend  Khalid,  and 
his  desire  to  avert  a  possible  danger,  banish  sleep  from 
his  eyes. 

"  My  spirit  is  perturbed  about  thee,"  thus  further, 
"  and  I  can  not  feel  at  ease  until  I  have  given  my 
friendly  counsel.  Thou  art  free  to  follow  it  or  not 
to  follow  it.  But  for  the  sake  of  this  beard  Sheikh 
Khalid,  do  not  speak  at  the  Mosque  to-day.  I  know 
the  people  of  this  City:  they  are  ignorant,  obtuse,  fan- 
[312] 


IN     KULMAKAN 

atlcal,  blind,  '  God  hath  sealed  up  their  hearts  and 
their  hearing.'  They  will  not  hear  thee ;  they  can  not 
understand  thee.  I  know  them  better  than  thou:  I 
have  lived  amongst  them  for  forty  years.  And  what 
talk  have  we  wasted.  They  will  not  hear;  they  can 
not  see.  It's  a  dog's  tail,  Sheikh  Khalid.  And  what 
Allah  hath  twisted,  man  can  not  straighten.  So,  let 
it  be.  Let  them  wallow  in  their  ignorance.  Or,  if 
thou  wilt  help  them,  talk  not  to  them  direct.  Use 
the  medium  of  the  holy  man,  like  myself.  This  is 
my  advice  to  thee.  For  thine  own  sake  and  for  the 
sake  of  that  good  woman,  thy  friend  and  mine,  I  give 
it.     Now,  I  can  go  and  sleep.     Salaam." 

And  the  grey  beard  of  Sheikh  Taleb  and  his  sharp 
blue  eyes  were  animated,  as  he  spoke,  agitated  like  his 
spirit.  What  he  has  heard  abroad  and  what  he  sus- 
pects, are  shadowed  forth  in  his  friendly  counsel.  Let 
Khalid  reflect  upon  it.  Our  Scribe,  at  least,  is  per- 
suaded that  Sheikh  Taleb  spoke  as  a  friend.  And  he, 
too,  suspects  that  something  is  brewing  abroad.  He 
would  have  Khalid  hearken,  therefore,  to  the  Sheikh. 

But  Khalid  in  silence  ponders  the  matter.  And  at 
table,  even  Mrs.  Gotfry  can  not  induce  him  to 
speak.  She  has  just  returned  from  the  bazaar; 
she  could  hardly  make  her  way  through  the  choked 
arcade  leading  to  the  Mosque;  the  crowd  is  immense 
and  tumultuous;  and  a  company  of  the  Dragoons  is 
gone  forth  to  open  the  way  and  maintain  order. 
"  But  I  don't  think  they  are  going  to  succeed,"  she 
added.  Silently,  impassively,  Khalid  hears  this. 
And  after  going  through  the  second  course,  eating  as 
[313] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

if  he  were  dreaming,  he  gets  up  and  leaves  the  table. 
Mrs.  Gotfry,  somewhat  concerned,  orders  her  last 
course,  takes  her  thimble-full  of  coffee  at  a  gulp,  and, 
leaving  likewise,  hurries  upstairs  and  calls  Khalid, 
who  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  hall,  into  her  room. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

"  Nothing,  nothing,"  murmured  Khalid  absent- 
mindedly. 

"  That's  not  true.  Everything  belies  your  words. 
Why,  your  actions,  your  expression,  your  silence  op- 
presses me.  I  know  what  is  disturbing  you.  And  I 
would  prevail  upon  you,  if  I  could,  to  give  up  this 
afternoon's  business.  Don't  go;  don't  speak.  I  have 
a  premonition  that  things  are  not  going  to  end  well. 
Why,  even  my  dragoman  says  that  the  Mohammedan 
mob  is  intent  upon  some  evil  business.  Be  advised. 
And  since  you  are  going  to  break  with  your  associates, 
why  not  do  so  now.  The  quicker  the  better.  Come, 
make  up  your  mind.  And  we'll  not  wait  for  the 
morning  train.  We'll  leave  for  Baalbek  in  a  special 
carriage  this  afternoon.     What  say  you  ?  " 

Just  then  the  brass  band  in  front  of  the  Hotel 
struck  up  the  Dastur  march  in  honour  of  the  Sheikhs 
who  come  to  escort  the  Unionist  Deputies  and  the 
speaker  to  the  Mosque. 

"  I  have  made  up  my  mind.  I  have  given  my 
word." 

And  being  called,  Mrs.  Gotfry,  though  loath  to  let 
him  go,  presses  his  hand  and  wishes  him  good  speed. 

And  here  we  are  in  the  carnage  on  the  right  of  the 
green-turbaned  Sheikh.  We  look  disdainfully  on  the 
[314] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

troops,  the  brass  band,  and  the  crowd  of  nondescripts 
that  are  leading  the  procession.  We  cross  the  bridge, 
pass  the  Town-Hall,  and,  winding  a  narrow  street 
groaning  with  an  electric  tramway,  we  come  to  the 
grand  arcade  in  which  the  multitudes  on  both  sides 
are  pressed  against  the  w^alls  and  into  the  stalls  by  the 
bullying  Dragoons.  We  drive  through  until  we 
reach  the  arch,  where  some  Khalif  of  the  Omayiahs 
used  to  take  the  air.  And  descending  from  the  car- 
riage, we  walk  a  few  paces  between  two  rows  of  book- 
shops, and  here  we  are  in  the  court  of  the  grand 
Mosque  Omayiah. 

We  elbow  our  way  through  the  pressing,  distressing 
multitudes,  following  Ahmed  Bey  into  the  Mosque, 
while  the  Army  Officer  mounts  a  platform  in  the 
court  and  dispenses  to  the  crowd  there  of  his  Turkish 
blatherskite.  We  stand  In  the  Mosque  near  the  heavy 
tapestried  square  which  is  said  to  be  the  sarcophagus 
of  St.  John.  Already  a  Sheikh  is  in  the  pulpit 
preaching  on  the  excellences  of  liberty,  chopping  out 
definitions  of  equality,  and  quoting  from  Al-Hadith 
to  prove  that  all  men  are  Allah's  children  and  that 
the  most  favoured  In  Allah's  sight  Is  he  who  is  most 
loving  to  his  brother  man.  He  then  winds  up  with 
an  encomium  on  the  heroes  of  the  day,  curses 
vehemently  the  reactionaries  and  those  who  curse 
them  not  (the  Mosque  resounds  with  "Curse  the  re- 
actionists, curse  them  all!"),  tramples  beneath  his 
heel  every  spy  and  informer  of  the  New  Era,  invokes 
the  great  Allah  and  his  Apostle  to  watch  over  the 
patriots  and  friends  of  the  Ottoman  nation,  to  visit 
[315] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

with  grievous  punishment  its  enemies,  and  — 
descends. 

The  silence  of  expectation  ensues.  The  Mosque  is 
crowded;  and  the  press  of  turbans  is  such  that  if  a 
pea  were  dropt  from  above  it  would  not  reach 
the  floor.  From  the  pulpit  the  great  Mohammedan 
audience,  with  its  red  fezes,  its  green  and  white  tur- 
bans, seemed  to  Khalid  like  a  verdant  field  overgrown 
with  daisies  and  poppies.  "  It  is  the  beginning  of 
Arabia's  Spring,  the  resuscitation  of  the  glory  of 
Islam,"  and  so  forth;  thus  opening  with  a  flourish  of 
flattery  like  the  spouting  tricksters  whom  he  so 
harshly  judges.  And  what  shall  we  say  of  him?  It 
were  not  fair  quickly  to  condemn,  to  cry  him  down 
at  the  start.  Perhaps  he  was  thus  inspired  by  the 
august  assembly;  perhaps  he  quailed  and  thought  it 
wise  to  follow  thus  far  the  advice  of  his  friends.  "  It 
was  neither  this  nor  that,"  say  our  Scribe.  "For. as 
he  stood  in  the  tribune,  the  picture  of  the  field  of 
daisies  and  poppies  suggested  the  picture  of  Spring. 
A  speaker  is  not  always  responsible  for  the  frolics  of 
his  fancy.  Indeed,  an  audience  of  some  five  thousand 
souls,  all  intent  upon  this  opaque,  mysterious  Entity  in 
the  tribune,  is  bound  to  reach  the  very  heart  of  it; 
for  think  what  five  thousand  rays  focussed  on  a  sensi- 
tive plate  can  do."     Thus  our  Scribe,  apologetically. 

But  after  the  first  contact  and  the  vibrations  of 
enthusiasm  and  flattery  that  followed,  Khalid  regains 
his  equilibrium  and  reason,  and  strikes  into  his  favour- 
ite theme.  He  begins  by  arraigning  the  utilitarian 
spirit  of  Europe,  the  rank  materialism  which  is  in- 
[316] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

vading  our  very  temples  of  worship.  God,  Truth, 
Virtue,  with  them,  is  no  longer  esteemed  for  its  own 
worth,  but  for  what  it  can  yield  of  the  necessities  and 
luxuries  of  life.  And  with  these  cynical  materiah'stic 
abominations  they  would  be  supreme  even  in  the  East; 
they  would  extinguish  with  their  dominating  spirit  of 
trade  every  noble  virtue  of  the  soul.  And  yet,  they 
make  presumption  of  introducing  civilisation  by  be- 
nevolent assimilation,  rather  dissimulation.  For  even 
an  Englishman  in  our  country,  for  instance,  is  unlike 
himself  in  his  own.  The  American,  too,  who  is  loud- 
lunged  about  democracy,  and  shirt-sleeve  diplomacy, 
wheedles  and  truckles  as  good  as  the  wiliest  of  our 
pashas.     And  further  he  exclaims: 

"  Not  to  Christian  Europe  as  represented  by  the 
State,  therefore,  or  by  the  industrial  powers  of 
wealth,  or  by  the  alluring  charms  of  decadence  in  art 
and  literature,  or  by  missionary  and  educational  insti- 
tutions, would  I  have  you  turn  for  light  and  guidance. 
No:  from  these  plagues  of  civilisation  protect  us, 
Allah !  No :  let  us  have  nothing  to  do  with  that  prac- 
tical Christianity  which  is  become  a  sort  of  divine 
key  to  Colonisation;  a  mint,  as  it  were,  which  con- 
tinually replenishes  the  treasuries  of  Christendom. 
Let  us  have  nothing  to  do  with  their  propagandas  for 
the  propagation  of  supreme  Fakes.  No,  no.  Not 
this  Europe,  O'  my  Brothers,  should  we  take  for  our 
model  or  emulate:  not  the  Europe  which  is  being  de- 
religionised  by  Material  Science;  disorganised  by 
Communion  and  Anarchy;  befuddled  by  Alcoholism; 
enervated  by  Debauch.  To  another  Europe  indeed, 
[317] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

would  I  direct  you  —  a  Europe,  high,  noble,  healthy, 
pure,  and  withal  progressive.  To  the  deep  and  inex- 
haustible sources  of  genius  there,  of  reason  and  wis- 
dom and  truth,  would  I  have  you  advert  the  mind. 
The  divine  idealism  of  German  philosophy,  the  lofty 
purity  of  true  French  art,  the  strength  and  sterling 
worth  of  English  freedom, —  these  we  should  try  to 
emulate;  these  we  should  introduce  into  the  gorgeous 
besottedness  of  Oriental  life,  and  literature,  and  re- 
ligion.    .     .     ." 

And  thus,  until  he  reaches  the  heart  of  his  subject; 
while  the  field  of  daisies  and  poppies  before  him 
gently  sways  as  under  a  soft  morning  breeze;  nods,  as 
it  were,  its  approbation. 

"  Truly,"  he  continues,  "  religion  is  purely  a  work 
of  the  heart, —  the  human  heart,  and  the  heart  of  the 
world  as  well.  For  have  not  the  three  monotheistic 
religions  been  born  in  this  very  heart  of  the  world, 
in  Arabia,  Syria,  and  Palestine?  And  are  not  our 
Books  of  Revelation  the  truest  guides  of  life  hitherto 
known  to  man  ?  How  then  are  we  to  keep  this  Heart 
pure,  to  free  it,  in  other  words,  from  the  plagues  I 
have  named?  And  how,  on  the  other  hand,  are  we 
to  strengthen  it,  to  quicken  its  sluggish  blood?  In  a 
word,  how  are  we  to  attain  to  the  pinnacle  of  health, 
and  religion,  and  freedom, —  of  power,  and  love,  and 
light?  By  political  revolutions,  and  insurrections, 
and  Dasturs?  By  blindly  adopting  the  triple  politi- 
cal tradition  of  France,  which  after  many  years  of 
terror  and  bloodshed,  only  gave  Europe  a  new  Yoke, 
a  new  Tyranny,  a  new  grinding  Machine?  No,  my 
[318] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

Brothers;  not  by  political  nomenclature,  not  by  politi- 
cal revolutions  alone,  shall  the  nations  be  emanci- 
pated." 

Whereupon  Ahmed  Bey  begins  to  knit  his  brows; 
Shakib  shakes  his  head,  biting  his  nether  lip;  and  here 
and  there  in  the  audience  is  heard  a  murmur  about  re- 
trogression and  reaction.  Khalid  proceeds  with  his 
allegory  of  the  Muleteer  and  the  Pack-Mule. 

"  See,  the  panel  of  the  Mule  is  changed ;  the  load, 
too;  and  a  few  short-cuts  are  made  in  the  rocky  wind- 
ing road  of  statecraft  and  tyranny.  Ah,  the  stolid, 
patient,  drudging  Mule  always  exults  in  a  new  Panel, 
which,  indeed,  seems  necessary  every  decade,  or  so. 
For  the  old  one,  when,  from  a  sense  of  economy,  or 
from  negligence  or  stupidity,  is  kept  on  for  a  length 
of  time,  makes  the  back  sore,  and  the  Mule  becomes 
kickish  and  resty.  Hence,  the  plasters  of  conserva- 
tive homeopathists,  the  operations  suggested  by  politi- 
cal leeches,  the  radical  cures  of  social  quacks,  and  such 
like.  But  the  Mule  continues  to  kick  against  the 
pricks;  and  the  wise  Muleteer,  these  days,  when  he 
has  not  the  price  of  a  new  Panel,  or  knows  not  how 
to  make  one,  sells  him  to  the  first  bidder.  And  the 
new  owner  thereupon  washes  the  sores  and  wounds, 
applies  to  them  a  salve  of  the  patent  kind,  buys  his 
Mule  a  new  Panel,  and  makes  him  do  the  work. 
That  is  what  I  understand  by  a  political  revolution 
.  .  .  And  are  the  Ottoman  people  free  to-day? 
Who  in  all  Syria  and  Arabia  dare  openly  criticise  the 
new  Owner  of  the  Mule? 

"  Ours  in  a  sense  is  a  theocratic  Government.  And 
[319] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

only  by  reforming  the  religion  on  which  it  is  based, 
is  political  reform  in  any  way  possible  and  enduring." 
And  here  he  argues  that  the  so-called  Reformation  of 
Islam,  of  which  Jelal  ud-Din  el-Afghani  and  Moham- 
med Abdu  are  the  protagonists,  is  false.  It  is  based  on 
theological  juggling  and  traditional  sophisms.  Their 
Al-Gazzali,  whom  they  so  much  prize  and  quote,  is 
like  the  St.  Augustine  of  the  Christians:  each  of  these 
theologians  finds  in  his  own  Book  of  Revelation  a 
divine  criterion  for  measuring  and  judging  all  human 
knowledge.  No;  a  scientific  truth  can  not  be 
measured  by  a  Koranic  epigram:  the  Koran,  a  divine 
guide  to  life;  a  work  of  the  heart  should  not  attempt 
to  judge  a  work  of  the  mind  or  should  be  judged 
by  it. 

"  But  I  would  brush  the  cobwebs  of  interpretation 
and  sophism  from  this  Work  of  the  heart,"  he  cries; 
*'  every  spider's  weh  in  the  Mosque,  I  would  svi^eep 
away.  The  garments  of  your  religion,  I  would  have 
you  clean,  O  my  Brothers.  Ay,  even  the  threadbare 
adventitious  wrappages,  I  would  throw  away.  From 
the  religiosity  and  cant  of  to-day  I  call  you  back  to 
the  religion  pure  of  the  heart.     ..." 

But  the  Field  of  poppies  and  daisies  begins  to  sway 
as  under  a  gale.  It  is  swelling  violently,  tumultu- 
ously. 

"  I  would  free  al-Islam,"  he  continues,  "  from  Its 
degrading  customs,  its  stupefying  traditions.  Its  en- 
slaving superstitions,  its   imbruting  cants." 

Here  several  voices  in  the  audience  order  the 
speaker  to  stop.  "  Innovation !  Infidelity !  "  they  cry. 
[320] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

"  The  yearly  pestiferous  consequences  of  the  Haji " 
— '  But  Khalid  no  longer  can  be  heard.  On  all  sides 
zealotry  raises  and  shakes  a  protesting  hand;  on  all 
sides  it  shrieks,  objurgating,  threatening.  Here  it 
asks,  "  We  would  like  to  know  if  the  speaker  be  a 
Wahhabi."  From  another  part  of  the  Mosque  comes 
the  reply:  "Ay,  he  is  a  Wahhabi."  And  the  voice 
of  the  speaker  thundering  above  the  storm:  "Only  in 
Wahhabism  pure  and  simple  is  the  reformation  of  al- 
Islam  possible."     .     .     .     Finis. 

Zealotry  is  set  by  the  ear;  the  hornet's  nest  is 
stirred.  Your  field  of  poppies  and  daisies,  O  Khalid, 
is  miraculously  transformed  into  a  pit  of  furious  grey 
spectres  and  howling  red  spirits.  And  still  you  wait 
in  the  tribune  until  the  storm  subside?  Fool,  fool! 
Art  now  in  a  civilised  assembly?  Hast  thou  no  eyes 
to  see,  no  ears  to  hear? 

"Reactionist!  Infidel!  Innovator!  Wahhabi! 
Slay  him !  Kill  him !  "  —  Are  these  likely  to  sub- 
side the  while  thou  wait?  By  the  tomb  of  St. 
John  there,  get  thee  down,  and  quickly.  Bravo, 
Shakib ! —  He  rushes  to  the  tribune,  drags  him  down 
by  tiie  jubbah,  and,  with  the  help  of  another  friend, 
hustles  him  out  of  the  Mosque.  But  the  thirst  for 
blood  pursues  them.  And  Khalid  receives  in  the 
court  outside  a  stiletto-thrust  in  the  back  and  a  slash 
in  the  forehead  above  the  brow  down  to  the  ear. 
Which,  indeed,  we  consider  a  part  of  his  good  for- 
tune. Like  the  muleteer  of  his  Lebanon  tour,  we 
attribute  his  escape  with  two  wounds  to  the  prayers 
of  his  good  mother.  For  he  is  now  in  the  carriage 
[321] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

with  Shakib,  the  blood  streaming  down  his  back  and 
over  his  face.  With  difficulty  the  driver  makes  his 
way  through  the  crowds,  issues  out  of  the  arcade,  and 
—  crack  the  whip!     Quickly  to  the  Hotel. 

The  multitudes  behind  us,  both  inside  and  outside 
the  Mosque,  are  violently  divided ;  for  the  real  re- 
actionists of  Damascus,  those  who  are  hostile  to  the 
Constitution  and  the  statochratic  Government,  are 
always  watching  for  an  opportunity  to  give  the  match 
to  the  dry  sedges  of  sedition.  And  so,  the  liberals, 
who  are  also  the  friends  of  Khalid,  and  the  fanatical 
mobs  of  the  ulema,  will  have  it  out  among  themselves. 
They  call  each  other  reactionists,  plotters,  conspira- 
tors; and  thereupon  the  bludgeons  and  poniards  are 
brandished ;  the  pistols  here  and  there  are  fired ;  the 
Dragoons  hasten  to  the  scene  of  battle  —  but  we  are 
not  writing  now  the  History  of  the  Ottoman  Revolu- 
tion. We  leave  them  to  have  it  out  among  them- 
selves as  best  they  can,  and  accompany  our  Khalid  to 
the  Hotel. 

Here  the  good  Mrs.  Gotfry  washes  the  blood  from 
his  face,  and  Shakib,  after  helping  him  to  bed,  hastens 
to  call  the  surgeon,  who,  having  come  straightway, 
sews  and  dresses  the  wounds  and  assures  us  that  they 
are  not  dangerous.  In  the  evening  a  number  of 
Sheikhs  of  an  enlightened  and  generous  strain,  come 
to  inquire  about  him.  They  tell  us  that  one  of  the 
assailants  of  Khalid,  a  noted  brigand,  and  ten  of  the 
reactionists,  are  now  in  prison.  The  Society  Depu- 
ties, however,  do  not  seem  much  concerned  about  their 
wounded  friend.  Yes,  they  are  concerned,  but  in 
[322] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

another  direction  and  on  weightier  matters.  For  the 
telegraph  wires  on  the  following  day  were  kept  busy. 
And  in  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  after  the 
event,  the  man  who  helped  Shakib  to  save  Khalid  from 
the  mob,  comes  to  save  Khalid's  life.  The  Superin- 
tendent of  the  Telegraph  himself  is  here  to  inform  us 
that  Khalid  was  accused  to  the  Military  Tribunal  as 
a  reactionist,  and  a  cablegram,  in  which  he  is  sum- 
moned there,  is  just  received. 

"  Had  I  delivered  this  to  the  Vali,"  he  continues, 
"  you  would  have  been  now  in  the  hands  of  the  police, 
and  to-morrow  on  your  way  to  Constantinople.  But 
I  shall  not  deliver  it  until  you  are  safe  out  of  the 
City.  And  you  must  fly  or  abscond  to-day,  because  I 
can  not  delay  the  message  until  to-morrow." 

Now  Khalid  and  Shakib  and  Mrs.  Gotfry  take 
counsel  together.  The  one  train  for  Baalbek  leaves 
in  the  morning;  the  carriage  road  is  ruined  from  dis- 
use; and  only  on  horseback  can  we  fly.  So,  Mrs. 
Gotfry  orders  her  dragoman  to  hire  horses  for  three, 
—  nay,  for  four,  since  we  must  have  an  extra  guide 
with  us, —  and  a  muleteer  for  the  baggage. 

And  here  Shakib  interposes  a  suggestion:  "They 
must  not  come  to  the  Hotel.  Be  with  them  on  the 
road,  near  the  first  bridge,  about  the  first  hour  of 
night." 

At  the  office  of  the  Hotel  the  dragoman  leaves  word 
that  they  are  leaving  for  a  friend's  house  on  account 
of  their  patient. 

And  after  dinner  Mrs.  Gotfry  and  Khalid  set 
forth  afoot,  accompanied  by  Shakib.  In  five  minutes 
[323] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

they  reach  the  first  bridge;  the  dragoman  and  the 
guide,  with  their  horses  and  lanterns,  are  there  wait- 
ing. Shakib  helps  Khalid  to  his  horse  and  bids  them 
farewell.  He  will  leave  for  Baalbek  by  the  first 
train,  and  be  there  ahead  of  them. 

And  now,  Reader,  were  we  really  romancing,  we 
should  here  dilate  of  the  lovely  ride  in  the  lovely 
moonlight  on  the  lovely  road  to  Baalbek.  But  truth 
to  tell,  the  road  is  damnable,  the  welkin  starless,  the 
night  pitch-black,  and  our  poor  Dreamer  is  suffering 
from  his  wounds. 


[324] 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  STONING  AND  FLIGHT 

*' A  ND  whence  the  subtle  thrill  of  joy  in  suffering 
-^  for  the  Truth,"  asks  Khalid.  "Whence  the 
light  that  flows  from  the  wounds  of  martyrs  ?  Whence 
the  rapture  that  triumphs  over  their  pain?  In  the 
thick  of  night,  through  the  alcoves  of  the  mountains, 
over  their  barren  peaks,  down  through  the  wadi  of 
oblivion,  silently  they  pass.  And  they  dream.  They 
dream  of  appearance  in  disappearance;  of  triumph  in 
surrender;  of  sunrises  in  the  sunset. 

"  A  mighty  tidal  wave  leaves  high  upon  the  beach  a 
mark  which  later  on  becomes  the  general  level  of  the 
ocean.  And  so  do  the  great  thinkers  of  the  world, — 
the  poets  and  seers,  the  wise  and  strong  and  self-deny- 
ing, the  proclaimers  of  the  Religion  of  Man.  And  I 
am  but  a  scrub-oak  in  this  forest  of  giants,  my  Broth- 
ers. A  scrub-oak  which  you  might  cut  down,  but  not 
uproot.  Lop  off  my  branches;  apply  the  axe  to  my 
trunk;  make  of  my  timber  charcoal  for  the  censers  of 
your  temples  of  worship ;  but  the  roots  of  me  are  deep, 
deep  in  the  soil,  beyond  the  reach  of  mortal  hands. 
They  are  even  spreading  under  your  tottering  palaces 
and  temples.     .     .     . 

"  I  dream  of  the  awakening  of  the  East;  of  puissant 
Orient  nations  rising  to  glorify  the  Idea,  to  build  tem- 
[325] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

pies  to  the  Universal  Spirit  —  to  Art,  and  Love,  and 
Truth,  and  Faith.  What  if  I  am  lost  in  the  alcoves 
of  the  hills,  if  I  vanish  forever  in  the  night?  The 
sun  that  sets  must  rise.  It  is  rising  and  lighting  up 
the  dark  and  distant  continents  even  when  setting. 
Think  of  that,  ye  who  gloat  over  the  sinking  of  my 
mortal  self. 

"  No ;  an  idea  is  never  too  early  annunciated.  The 
good  seed  will  grow  among  the  rocks,  and  though  the 
heavens  withhold  from  it  the  sunshine  and  rain.  It  is 
because  I  will  it,  nay,  because  a  higher  Will  than  mine 
wills  it,  that  the  spirit  of  Khalid  shall  yet  flow  among 
your  pilgrim  caravans,  through  the  fertile  deserts  of 
Arabia,  down  to  the  fountain-head  of  Faith,  to  Mecca 
and  Medina,"  et  cetera. 

This,  perhaps  the  last  of  the  rhapsodies  of  Khalid's, 
the  Reader  considering  the  circumstances  under  which 
it  was  written,  will  no  doubt  condone.  Further,  how- 
ever, in  the  K.  L.  MS.  we  can  not  now  proceed.  Cer- 
tainly the  Author  is  not  wanting  in  the  sort  of  cour- 
age which  is  loud-lunged  behind  the  writing  table;  his 
sufficiency  of  spirit  is  remarkable,  unutterable.  But 
we  would  he  knew  that  the  strong  do  not  exult  in  their 
strength,  nor  the  wise  in  their  wisdom.  For  to  fly 
and  philosophize  were  one  thing,  and  to  philosophize 
in  prison  were  another.  Khalid  this  time  does  not  fol- 
low closely  in  the  way  of  the  Masters.  But  he  would 
have  done  so,  if  we  can  believe  Shakib  in  this,  had  not 
Mrs.  Gotfry  persuaded  him  to  the  contrary.  He 
would  have  stood  in  the  Turkish  Areopagus  at  Con- 
stantinople, defended  himself  somewhat  Socratic  before 
[326] 


IN     KULMAKAN 

his  judges,  and  hung  out  his  tung  on  a  rickety  gibbet 
in  the  neighborhood  of  St.  Sophia.  But  Mrs.  Gotfry 
spoiled  his  great  chance.  She  cheated  him  of  the 
glory  of  dying  for  a  noble  cause. 

"  The  Turks  are  not  worth  the  sacrifice,"  Shakib 
heard  her  say,  when  Khalid  ejaculated  somewhat  about 
martyrdom.  And  when  she  offered  to  accompany 
him,  the  flight  did  not  seem  shameful  in  his  eyes. 
Nay,  it  became  necessary;  and  under  the  circumstances 
it  was,  indeed,  cowardice  not  to  fly.  For  is  it  not  as 
noble  to  surrender  one's  self  to  Love  as  to  the  Turks 
or  any  other  earthly  despotism  ?  Gladly,  heroically,  he 
adventures  forth,  therefore,  and  philosophizes  on  the 
way  about  the  light  that  flows  from  the  wounds  of 
persecution.  But  we  regret  that  this  celestial  stream 
is  not  unmixed ;  it  is  accompanied  by  blood  and  pus ; 
by  distention  and  fever,  and  other  inward  and  outward 
sores. 

In  this  grievous  state,  somewhat  like  Don  Quixote 
after  the  Battle  of  the  Mill,  our  Khalid  enters  Baal- 
bek. If  the  reader  likes  the  comparison  between  the 
two  Knights  at  this  juncture,  he  must  work  it  out  for 
himself.  We  can  not  be  so  uncharitable  as  that;  es- 
pecially that  our  Knight  is  a  compatriot,  and  is  now, 
after  our  weary  journeyings  together,  become  our 
friend. —  Our  poor  grievous  friend  who  must  submit 
again  to  the  surgeon's  knife. 

Mrs.  Gotfry  would  not  let  him  go  to  his  mother, 

for  she  herself  would  nurse  him.     So,  the  doctor  is 

called  to  the  Hotel.     And  after  opening,  disinfecting, 

and  dressing  the  wounds,  he  orders  his  patient  to  keep 

[327] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

in  bed  for  some  days.  They  will  then  visit  the  ruins 
and  resume  their  journeying  to  Egypt.  Khalid  no 
longer  would  live  in  Syria, —  in  a  country  forever 
doomed  to  be  under  the  Turkish  yoke,  faring,  nay, 
misfaring  alike  in  the  New  Era  as  in  the  Old. 

Now,  his  mother,  tottering  with  age  and  sorrow, 
comes  to  the  Hotel,  and  begs  him  in  a  flood  of  tears 
to  come  home ;  for  his  father  is  now  with  the  Jesuits  of 
Beirut  and  seldom  comes  to  Baalbek.  And  his 
cousin  Najma,  with  a  babe  on  her  arm  and  a  tale  of 
woe  in  her  eyes,  comes  also  to  invite  her  cousin  Khalid 
to  her  house. 

She  is  alone;  her  father  died  some  months  ago;  her 
husband,  after  the  dethronement  of  Abd'ul-Hamid,  be- 
ing implicated  in  the  reaction-movement,  fled  the  coun- 
try; and  his  relatives,  to  add  to  her  afiliction,  would 
deprive  her  of  her  child.  She  is  alone;  and  sick  in 
the  lungs.  She  coughs,  too,  the  same  sharp,  dry,  malig- 
nant cough  that  once  plagued  Khalid.  Ay,  the  same 
disease  which  he  buried  in  the  pine  forest  of  Mt.  Leb- 
anon, he  beholds  the  ghost  of  it  now,  more  terrible  and 
heart-rending  than  anything  he  has  yet  seen  or  ex- 
perienced. The  disease  which  he  conquered  is  come 
back  in  the  person  of  his  cousin  Najma  to  conquer  him. 
And  who  can  assure  Khalid  that  it  did  not  steal  Into 
her  breast  along  with  his  kisses?  And  yet,  he  is  not 
the  only  one  in  Baalbek  who  returned  from  America 
with  phthisis.  O,  but  that  thought  is  horrifying.  Im- 
possible —  he  can  not  believe  it. 

But  whether  it  be  from  you  or  from  another,  O  Kha- 
lid, there  is  the  ghost  of  it  beckoning  to  you.  I/Ook  at 
[328] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

it.  Are  those  the  cheeks,  those  the  eyes,  this  the  body 
which  a  year  ago  was  a  model  of  rural  charm  and 
beauty  and  health?  Is  this  the  compensation  of  love? 
Is  there  anything  like  it  dreamt  of  in  your  philosophy? 
There  she  is,  who  once  in  the  ruined  Temple  of  Venus 
mixed  the  pomegranate  flower  of  her  cheeks  with  the 
saffron  of  thy  sickly  lips.  Wasted  and  dejected  broken 
in  body  and  spirit,  she  sits  by  your  bedside  nursing  her 
baby  and  coughing  all  the  while.  And  that  fixed  ex- 
pression of  sadness,  so  habitual  among  the  Arab  women 
who  carry  their  punks  and  their  children  on  their  backs 
and  go  a-begging,  it  seems  as  if  it  were  an  hundred 
autumns  old,  this  sadness.  But  right  there,  only  a  year 
ago,  the  crimson  poppies  dallied  with  the  laughing 
breeze;  the  melting  rubies  dilated  of  health  and  joy. 

And  now,  deploring,  imploring,  she  asks:  "Will 
you  not  come  to  me,  O  Khalid  ?  Will  you  not  let  me 
nurse  you?  Come;  and  your  mother,  too,  will  live 
with  us.  I  am  so  lonesome,  so  miserable.  And  at 
night  the  boys  cast  stones  at  my  door.  My  husband's 
relatives  put  them  to  it  because  I  would  not  give  them 
the  child.  And  they  circulate  all  kinds  of  calumnies 
about  me  too." 

Khalid  promises  to  come,  and  assures  her  that  she 
will  not  long  remain  alone.  "  And  Allah  willing,"  he 
adds,  "  you  will  recover  and  be  happy  again." 

She  rises  to  go,  when  Mrs.  Gotfry  enters  the  room. 
Khalid  introduces  his  cousin  as  his  dead  bride.  "  What 
do  you  mean  ?  "  she  inquires.  He  promises  to  explain. 
Meanwhile,  she  goes  to  her  room,  brings  some  sweet- 
meats in  a  round  box  inlaid  with  mother-of-pearl  for 
[329] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

Khalid's  guests.  And  taking  the  babe  in  her  arms, 
she  fondles  and  kisses  it,  and  gives  its  mother  some  ad- 
vice about  suckling.  "  Not  whenever  the  child  cries, 
but  only  at  stated  times,"  she  repeats. 

So  much  about  Khalid's  mother  and  cousin.  A  few 
days  after,  when  he  is  able  to  leave  his  room,  he  goes 
to  see  them.  His  cousin  Najma  he  would  take  with 
him  to  Cairo.  He  would  not  leave  her  behind,  a  prey 
to  the  cruelty  of  loneliness  and  disease.  He  tells  her 
this.  She  is  overjoyed.  She  is  ready  to  go  whenever 
he  says.     To-morrow?     Please  Allah,  yes.     But  — 

Please  Allah,  ill-luck  is  following.  For  on  his 
way  back  to  the  Hotel,  a  knot  of  boys,  lying  in 
wait  in  one  of  the  side  streets,  cast  stones  at  him. 
He  looks  back,  and  a  missile  whizzes  above  his  head, 
another  hits  him  in  the  forehead  almost  undoing  the 
doctor's  work.  Alas,  that  wound!  Will  it  ever 
heal?  Khalid  takes  shelter  in  one  of  the  shops;  a 
cameleer  rates  the  boys  and  chases  them  away.  The 
stoning  was  repeated  the  following  day,  and  the 
cause  of  it,  Shakib  tells  us,  is  patent.  For  when  it 
became  known  in  Baalbek  that  Khalid,  the  excom- 
municated one,  is  living  in  the  Hotel,  and  with  an 
American  woman!  the  old  prejudices  against  him  were 
aroused,  the  old  enemies  were  astirring.  The  priests 
held  up  their  hands  in  horror;  the  women  wagged 
their  long  tongues  in  the  puddle  of  scandal ;  and  the 
most  fanatical  shrieked  out,  execrating,  vituperating, 
threatening  even  the  respectable  Shakib,  who  persists 
in  befriending  this  muleteer's  son.  Excommunicated, 
he  now  comes  with  this  Americaniyah  (American 
[330] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

woman)  to  corrupt  the  community.  Horrible!  We 
will  even  go  farther  than  this  boy's  play  of  stoning. 
We  present  petitions  to  the  kaiemkam  demanding  the 
expulsion  of  this  Khalid  from  the  Hotel,  from  the 
City. 

From  other  quarters,  however,  come  heavier  charges 
against  Khalid.  The  Government  of  Damascus  has 
not  been  idle  ever  since  the  seditious  lack-beard  Sheikh 
disappeared.  The  telegraph  wires,  in  all  the  principal 
cities  of  Syria,  are  vibrating  with  inquiries  about  him, 
with  orders  for  his  arrest.  One  such  the  kaiemkam 
of  Baalbek  had  just  received  when  the  petition  of  the 
"  Guardians  of  the  Morals  of  the  Community  "  was 
presented  to  him.  To  this,  the  kaiemkam,  in  a  per- 
functory manner,  applies  his  seal,  and  assures  his  peti- 
tioners that  it  will  promptly  be  turned  over  to  the 
proper  official.  But  Turk  as  Turks  go,  he  "  places 
it  under  the  cushion,"  when  they  leave.  Which  ex- 
pression, translated  into  English  means,  he  quashes  it. 

Now,  by  good  chance,  this  is  the  same  kaiemkam  who 
sent  Khalid  a  year  ago  to  prison,  maugre  the  efforts 
and  importunities  and  other  inducements  of  Shakib. 
And  this  time,  he  will  do  him  and  his  friend  a  good 
turn.  He  was  thinking  of  the  many  misfortunes  of 
this  Khalid,  and  nursing  a  little  pity  for  him,  when 
Shakib  entered  to  offer  a  written  complaint  against  a 
few  of  the  more  noted  instigators  of  the  assailants  of 
his  friend.  His  Excellency  puts  this  in  his  pocket  and 
withdraws  with  Shakib  into  another  room.  A  few 
minutes  after,  Shakib  was  hurrying  to  the  Hotel  to 
confer  with  his  brother  Khalid  and  Mrs.  Gotfry. 
[331] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

"  I  saw  the  Order  with  these  very  eyes,"  said  Sha- 
kib,  almost  poking  his  two  forefingers  into  them. 
"  The  kaiemkam  showed  it  to  me." 

Hence,  the  secret  preparations  inside  the  Hotel  and 
out  of  it  for  a  second  remove,  for  a  final  flight. 
Shakib  packs  up;  Najma  is  all  ready.  And  Khalid 
cuts  his  hair,  doflEs  his  jubbah,  and  appears  again  in 
the  ordinary  attire  of  civilised  mortals.  For  how  else 
can  he  get  out  of  Beirut  and  the  telegraph  wires 
throughout  Syria  are  flowing  with  orders  for  his  ar- 
rest? In  a  hat  and  frock-coat,  therefore  (furnished 
by  Shakib),  he  enters  into  the  carriage  with  Mrs.  Got- 
fry  about  two  hours  after  midnight;  and,  with  their 
whole  retinue,  make  for  Riak,  and  thence  by  train  for 
Beirut.  Here  Shakib  obtains  passports  for  himself 
and  Najma,  and  together  with  Mrs.  Gotfry  and  her 
dragoman,  they  board  in  the  afternoon  the  Austrian 
Liner  for  Port-Said ;  while,  in  the  evening,  walking  at 
the  side  of  one  of  the  boatmen,  Khalid,  passportless, 
stealthily  passes  through  the  port,  and  rejoins  his 
friends. 


[332] 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  DESERT 

T^T'E  remember  seeing  once  a  lithographic  print 
representing  a  Christmas  legend  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  in  which  a  detachment  of  the  Heavenly  Host  — 
big,  ugly,  wild-looking  angels  —  are  pursuing,  with 
sword  and  pike,  a  group  of  terror-stricken  little  devils. 
The  idea  in  the  picture  produced  such  an  impression 
that  one  wished  to  see  the  helpless,  pitiful  imps  in 
heaven  and  the  armed  winged  furies,  their  pursuers,  in 
the  other  place.  Now,  as  we  go  through  the  many 
pages  of  Shakib's,  in  which  he  dilates  of  the  mis- 
chances, the  persecutions,  and  the  flights  of  Khalid, 
and  of  which  we  have  given  an  abstract,  very  brief 
but  comprehensive,  in  the  preceding  Chapters,  we  are 
struck  with  the  similarity  in  one  sense  between  his 
Dastur-legend,  so  to  speak,  and  that  of  the  Middle 
Ages  to  which  we  have  alluded.  The  devils  in  both 
pictures  are  distressing,  pitiful;  while  the  winged  per- 
secutors are  horribly  muscular,  and  withal  atrociously 
armed. 

Indeed,  this  legend  of  the  Turkish  angels  of  Fra- 
ternity and  Equality,  pursuing  the  Turkish  little  devils 
of  reaction,  so  called,  is  most  killing.  But  we  can 
not  see  how  the  descendants  of  Yakut  and  Seljuk 
Khan,  whether  pursuers  or  pursued,  whether  Dastur 
[333] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

winged  furies  they  be,  or  Hamidian  devils,  are  going  to 
hold  their  own  in  face  of  the  fell  Dragon  which  soon  or 
late  must  overtake  them.  That  heavy,  slow-going, 
slow-thinking  Monster  —  and  it  makes  little  difference 
whether  he  comes  from  the  North  or  from  the  West 
—  will  wait  until  the  contending  parties  exhaust  their 
strength  and  then  —  but  this  is  not  our  subject.  We 
would  that  this  pursuing  business  cease  on  all  sides, 
and  that  everybody  of  all  parties  concerned  pursue 
rather,  and  destroy,  the  big  strong  devil  within  them. 
Thus  sayeth  the  preacher.  And  thus,  for  once,  we, 
too.  For  does  not  every  one  of  these  furious  angels 
of  Equality,  whether  in  Constantinople,  in  Berlin,  in 
Paris,  in  London,  or  in  New  York,  sit  on  his  wings 
and  reveal  his  horns  when  he  rises  to  power?  We 
are  tired  of  wings  that  are  really  nothing  but  horns, 
misshaped  and  misplaced. 

Look  at  our  French-swearing,  whiskey-drinking 
Tataric  angels  of  the  Dastur!  Indeed,  we  rejoice 
that  our  poor  little  Devil  is  now  beyond  the  reach  of 
their  dripping  steel  and  rickety  second-hand  gibbets. 
And  yet,  not  very  far;  for  if  the  British  Government 
consent  or  blink,  Khalid  and  many  real  reactionists 
whom  Cairo  harbours,  would  have  to  seek  an  asylum 
elsewhere.  And  the  third  flight  might  not  be  as  suc- 
cessful as  the  others.  But  none  such  is  necessary. 
On  the  sands  of  the  Libyan  desert,  not  far  from 
Cairo  and  within  wind  of  Helwan,  they  pitch  their 
tents.  And  Mrs.  Gotfry  is  staying  at  Al-Hayat, 
which  is  a  stone's  throw  from  their  evening  fire.  She 
would  have  Khalid  live  there  too,  but  he  refuses.  He 
[334] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

will  live  with  his  cousin  and  Shakib  for  a  while.  He 
is  captivated,  we  are  told,  by  that  little  cherub  of  a 
babe.  But  this  does  not  prevent  him  from  visiting 
his  friend  the  Buhaist  Priestess  every  day  and  dining 
often  with  her  at  the  Hotel. 

She,  too,  not  infrequently  comes  to  the  camp.  In- 
deed, finding  the  solitude  agreeable  she  has  a  tent 
pitched  near  theirs.  And  as  a  relief  from  the  noise 
and  bustle  of  tourists  and  the  fatiguing  formalities  of 
Hotel  life,  she  repairs  thither  for  a  few  days  every 
week. 

Now,  in  this  austere  delicacy  of  the  desert,  where 
allwhere  is  the  softness  of  pure  sand,  Khalid  is  per- 
fectly happy.  Never  did  he  seem  so  careless,  our 
Scribe  asserts,  and  so  jovial  and  child-like  in  his  joys. 
Far  from  the  noise  and  strife  of  politics,  far  from  the 
bewildering  tangle  of  thought,  far  from  the  vain  hopes 
and  dreams  and  ambitions  of  life,  he  lives  each  day  as 
if  it  were  the  last  of  the  world.  Here  are  jo5i's  mani- 
fold for  a  weary  and  persecuted  spirit:  the  joy  of 
having  your  dearest  friend  and  comrade  with  you; 
the  joy  of  nursing  and  helping  to  restore  to  health  and 
happiness  the  woman  dearest  to  your  heart;  the  joy 
of  a  Love  budding  in  beauty  and  profusion ;  and  — 
this,  the  rarest  and  subh'mest  for  Khalid  —  the  joy 
of  worshipping  at  the  cradle  —  of  fondling,  caressing, 
and  bringing  up  one  of  the  brightest,  sweetest,  loveli- 
est of  babes. 

Najib  is  his  name  —  it  were  cruel  to  neutralise  such 
a  prodigy  —  and  he  is  just  learning  to  walk  and  lisp. 
Khalid  teaches  him  the  first  step  and  the  first  mono- 
[335] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

syllable,  receiving  in  return  the  first  kiss  which  his  in- 
fant lips  could  voice.  With  what  joy  Najib  makes 
his  first  ten  steps!  With  what  zest  would  he  prac- 
tise on  the  soft  sands,  laughing  as  he  falls,  and  rising 
to  try  again.  And  thus,  does  he  quickly,  wonderfully 
develop,  unfolding  in  the  little  circle  of  his  caressers 
—  in  his  mother's  lap,  in  Shakib's  arms,  on  Khalid's 
back,  on  Mrs.  Gotfry's  knee  —  the  irresistible  charm 
of  his  precocious  spirit. 

In  two  months  of  desert  life,  Najib  could  run  on 
the  sands  and  sit  down  when  tired  to  rest;  in  two 
months  he  could  imitate  in  voice  and  gesture  what- 
ever he  heard  or  saw:  the  donkey's  bfay,  and  with  a 
tilt  of  the  head  like  him;  the  cry  of  the  cock;  the 
shrill  whistle  of  the  train ;  and  the  howling  of  donkey 
boys.  His  keen  sense  of  discrimination  in  sounds  is 
incredible.  And  one  day,  seeing  a  Mohammedan 
spreading  his  rug  to  pray,  he  begins  to  kneel  and  kiss 
the  ground  in  imitation  of  him.  He  even  went  into 
the  tent  and  brought  Khalid's  jubbah  to  spread  it  on 
the  sand  likewise  for  that  purpose.  So  sensitive  to 
outside  impressions  is  this  child  that  he  quickly  re- 
sponds to  the  least  suggestion  and  with  the  least  effort. 
Early  in  the  morning,  when  the  chill  of  night  is  still 
on  the  sands,  he  toddles  into  Khalid's  tent  cooing  and 
warbling  his  joy.  A  walking  jasmine  flower,  a  sing- 
ing ray  of  sunshine,  Khalid  calls  him.  And  the 
mother,  on  seeing  her  child  thus  develop,  begins  to 
recuperate.  In  this  little  garden  of  happiness,  her 
hope  begins  to  blossom. 

But  Khalid  would  like  to  know  why  Najib,  on 
[336] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

coming  into  his  tent  in  the  morning  and  seeing  him 
naked,  always  pointed  with  his  little  finger  and  with 
questioning  smile,  to  what  protruded  under  the  navel. 
The  like  questions  Khalid  puts  with  the  ease  and 
freedom  of  a  child.  And  writes  full  pages  about 
them,  too,  in  which  he  only  succeeds  in  bamboozling 
himself  and  us.  For  how  can  we  account  for  every- 
thing a  child  does?  Even  the  psychologist  with  his 
reflex-action  theory  does  not  solve  the  whole  problem. 
But  Khalid  would  like  to  know  —  and  perhaps  not 
so  innocently  does  he  dwell  upon  this  subject  as  upon 
others  —  he  would  like  to  know  the  significance  of 
Najib's  pointed  finger  and  smile.  It  may  be  only  an 
accident,  Khalid.  "  But  an  accident,"  says  he,  "  oc- 
curring again  and  again  in  the  same  manner  under 
stated  conditions  ceases  to  be  such."  And  might  not 
the  child,  who  is  such  an  early  and  keen  observer, 
have  previously  seen  his  mother  in  native  buff,  and 
was  surprised  to  see  that  appendage  in  you,  Khalid? 
Even  at  Al-Hayat  Najib  is  become  popular.  Kha- 
lid often  comes  here  carrying  him  on  his  back.  And 
how  ready  is  the  child  to  salaam  everybody,  and  with 
both  hands,  as  he  stands  on  the  veranda  steps. 
"  Surely,"  says  Khalid,  "  there  is  a  deeper  under- 
standing between  man  and  child  than  between  man 
and  man.  For  who  but  a  child  dare  act  so  freely 
among  these  polyglots  of  ceremony  in  this  little  world 
of  frills  and  frocks  and  feathers?  Who  but  a  child 
dare  approach  without  an  introduction  any  one  of  these 
solemn-looking  tourists?  Here  then  is  the  divine 
source  of  the  sweetest  and  purest  joy.  Here  is  that 
[337] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

one  touch  of  Nature  which  makes  the  whole  world 
kin.  For  the  child,  and  though  he  be  of  the  lowest 
desert  tribe,  standing  on  the  veranda  of  a  fashionable 
Hotel,  can  warm  and  sweeten  with  the  divine  flame 
that  is  in  him,  the  hearts  of  these  sour-seeming,  stiff- 
looking  tourists  who  are  from  all  corners  of  the  earth. 
Is  not  this  a  miracle?  My  professor  of  psychology 
will  say,  '  Nay.'  But  what  makes  the  heart  leap  in 
that  grave  and  portly  gentleman,  who  might  be  from 
Finland  or  Iceland,  for  all  I  know,  when  Najib's 
hand  is  raised  to  him  in  salutation?  What  makes 
that  stately  and  sombre-looking  dame  open  her  arms, 
when  Najib  plucks  a  flower  and,  after  smelling  it, 
presents  it  to  her?  What  makes  that  reticent,  medi- 
tative, hard-favoured  ancient,  who  is  I  believe  a  psychol- 
ogist, what  makes  him  so  interested  in  observing  Najib 
when  he  stands  near  the  piano  pointing  anxiously  to 
the  keyboard?  For  the  child  enjoys  not  every  kind 
of  music:  play  a  march  or  a  melody  and  he  will  keep 
time,  listing  joyously  from  side  to  side  and  waving 
his  hand  in  an  arch  like  a  maestro;  play  something 
insipid  or  chaotic  and  he  will  stand  there  impassive 
as  a  statue. 

And  "  the  reticent  hard-favoured  ancient,"  who  turns 
out  to  be  an  American  professor  of  some  ology,  ex- 
plains to  Khalid  why  lively  music  moves  children, 
while  soft  and  subtle  tones  do  not.  But  Khalid  Is 
not  open  to  argument  on  the  subject.  He  prefers 
to  believe  that  children,  especially  when  so  keenly 
sensitive  as  his  prodigy,  understand  as  much.  If  not 
more,  about  music  as  the  average  operagoer  of  to-day. 
[338] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

But  that  is  not  saying  much.  The  professor  further- 
more, while  admitting  the  extreme  precocity  of 
Najib's  mind,  tries  to  simplify  by  scientific  analysis 
what  to  Khalid  and  other  laymen  seemed  wonderful, 
almost  miraculous.  Here,  too,  Khalid  botches  the 
arguments  of  the  learned  gentleman  in  his  effort  to 
give  us  a  summary  of  them,  and  tells  us  in  the  end 
that  never  after,  so  long  as  that  professor  was  there, 
did  he  ever  visit  Al-Hayat. 

He  prefers  to  frolic  and  philosophise  with  his 
prodigy  on  the  sands.  He  goes  on  all  four  around 
the  tent,  carrying  Najib  on  his  back;  he  digs  a  little 
ditch  in  the  sand  and  teaches  him  how  to  lie  therein. 
Following  the  precept  of  the  Greek  philosophers,  he 
would  show  him  even  so  early  how  to  die.  And 
Najib  lies  in  the  sand-grave,  folds  his  hands  on  his 
breast  and  closes  his  eyes.  Rising  therefrom,  Khalid 
would  teach  him  how  to  dance  like  a  dervish,  and 
Najib  whirls  and  whirls  until  he  falls  again  in  that 
grave. 

When  Mrs.  Gotfry  came  that  day,  Khalid  asked 
the  child  to  show  her  how  to  dance  and  die,  and 
Najib  begins  to  whirl  like  a  dervish  until  he  falls 
in  the  grave;  thereupon  he  folds  his  arms,  closes  his 
eyes,  and  smiles  a  pathetic  smile.  This  by  far  is  the 
masterpiece  of  all  his  feats.  And  one  evening,  when 
he  was  repeating  this  strange  and  weird  antic,  which 
in  Khalid's  strange  mind  might  be  made  to  symbolise 
something  stranger  than  both,  he  saw,  as  he  lay  in 
the  grave,  a  star  In  the  sky.  It  was  the  first  time  he 
saw  a  star;  and  he  jumped  out  of  his  sand-grave  ex- 
[339] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

ulting  in   the  discovery  he   had  made.     He   runs  to 
his  mother  and  points  the  star  to  her.     .     .     . 

And  thus  did  Khah'd  spend  his  halcyon  months  in 
the  desert.  Here  was  an  arcadia,  perfect  but  brief. 
For  his  delight  in  infant  worship,  and  in  the  new 
Love  which  was  budding  in  beauty  and  profusion,  and 
in  tending  his  sick  cousin  who  was  recovering  her 
health,  and  in  the  walks  around  the  ruins  in  the 
desert  with  his  dearest  comrade  and  friend, —  these, 
alas,  were  joys  of  too  pure  a  nature  to  endure. 


[340] 


AL-KHATIMAH 

*'"D  UT  I  can  not  see  all  that  you  see." 
"  Then  you  do  not  love  me." 

"  Back  again  to  Swedenborg  —  I  told  you  more 
than  once  that  he  is  not  my  apostle." 

"  Nor  is  he  mine.  But  he  has  expressed  a  great 
truth,  Jamilah.  Now,  can  you  love  me  in  the  light  of 
that  truth?" 

"  You  are  always  asking  me  that  same  question,  Kha- 
lid.  You  do  not  understand  me.  I  do  not  believe  in 
marriage.  I  tried  it  once;  I  will  not  try  it  again. 
I  am  married  to  Buhaism.  And  you  Khalid  —  re- 
member my  words  —  you  will  yet  be  an  apostle  —  the 
apostle  —  of  Buhaism.  And  you  will  find  me  with 
you,  whether  you  be  in  Arabia,  in  America,  or  in 
Egypt.  I  feel  this  —  I  know  it  —  I  am  positive 
about  it.  Your  star  and  mine  are  one.  We  are 
born  under  the  same  star.  We  are  now  in  the  same 
orbit,  approaching  the  same  nadir.  We  are  ruled  by 
our  stars.  I  believe  this,  and  you  don't.  At  least, 
you  say  you  don't.  But  you  do.  You  don't  know 
your  own  mind.  The  trend  of  the  current  of  your 
life  is  beyond  your  grasp,  beyond  your  comprehension. 
I  know.  And  you  must  listen  to  me.  You  must 
follow  my  advice.  If  you  can  not  come  with  me  now 
to  the  States,  you  will  await  me  here.  I  am  called 
on  a  pressing  business.  And  within  three  months, 
[341] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

at  the  most,  I  shall  return  and  find  you  waiting  for 
me  right  here,  in  this  desert." 

"  I  can  not  understand  you." 

"  You  will  yet." 

"  But  why  not  try  to  understand  me?  Can  you  not 
find  in  my  ideas  the  very  essence  of  Buhaism?  Can 
you  not  come  up  to  my  height  and  behold  there  the 
star  that  you  have  taken  for  your  guide?  My  Truth, 
Jamilah,  can  you  not  see  that?  Love  and  Faith,  free 
from  all  sectarianism  and  all  earthly  authority, — 
what  is  Buhaism  or  Mohammedanism  or  Christianity 
beside  them?  Moreover,  I  have  a  mission.  And  to 
love  me  you  must  believe  in  me,  not  in  the  Buha. 
You  laugh  at  my  dream.  But  one  day  It  will  be 
realised.  A  great  Arab  Empire  in  the  border-land 
of  the  Orient  and  Occident,  in  this  very  heart  of 
the  world,  this  Arabia,  this  Egypt,  this  Field  of  the 
Cloth  of  Gold,  so  to  speak,  where  the  Male  and 
Female  of  the  Spirit  shall  give  birth  to  a  unifying 
faith,  a  unifying  art,  a  unifying  truth  —  " 

"  Vagaries,  chimeras,"  Interrupted  Mrs.  Gotfry. 
"  Buhaism  is  established,  and  It  needs  a  great  apostle. 
It  needs  you;  It  will  have  you.  I  will  have  you. 
Your  destiny  is  interwoven  with  mine.  You  can 
not  flee  it,  do  what  you  may.  We  are  ruled  by  our 
stars,  Khalid.  And  if  you  do  not  realise  this  now, 
you  will  realise  it  to-morrow.  Here,  give  me  your 
hand." 

"  I  can  not." 

"  Very  well,  then.  Good-bye  —  au  revoir.  In 
three  months  you  will  change  your  mind.  In  three 
[342] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

months  I  will  return  to  the  East  and  find  you  waiting 
for  me,  even  here  in  this  desert.  Think  on  it,  and 
take  care  of  yourself.     Au  revoir" 

In  this  strange,  mysterious  manner,  after  pacing 
for  hours  on  the  sand  in  the  sheen  of  the  full  moon, 
Mrs.  Gotfry  says  farewell  to  Khalid. 

He  sits  on  a  rock  near  his  tent  and  ponders  for 
hours.  He  seeks  in  the  stars,  as  it  were,  a  clue  to 
the  love  of  this  woman,  which  he  first  thought  to  be 
unfathomable.  There  it  is,  the  stars  seem  to  say. 
And  he  looks  into  the  sand-grave  near  him,  where 
little  Najib  practises  how  to  die.  Yes;  a  fitting 
symbol  of  the  life  and  love  called  modern,  boasting 
of  freedom.  They  dance  their  dervish  dance,  these 
people,  even  like  Khalid's  little  Najib,  and  fall  into 
their  sand-graves,  and  fold  their  arms  and  smile: 
"  We  are  in  love  —  or  we  are  out  of  it."  Which  is 
the  same.  No:  he'll  have  none  of  this.  A  heart  as 
simple  as  this  desert  sand,  as  deep  in  affection  as  this 
heaven,  untainted  by  the  uncertainties  and  doubts  and 
caprices  of  modern  life, —  only  in  such  a  heart  is  the 
love  that  endures,  the  love  divine  and  eternal. 

He  goes  into  Najma's  tent.  The  mother  and  her 
child  are  sound  asleep.  He  stands  between  the  bed 
and  the  cot  contemplating  the  simplicity  and  inno- 
cence and  truth,  which  are  more  eloquent  in  Najib's 
brow  than  aught  of  human  speech.  His  little  hand 
raised  above  his  head  seems  to  point  to  a  star  which 
could  be  seen  through  an  opening  in  the  canvas.  Was 
it  his  star  —  the  star  that  he  saw  in  the  sand-grave  — 
the  star  that  is  calling  to  him?  — 
[343] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

But  let  us  resume  our  narration. 

A  fortnight  after  Mrs.  Gotfry's  departure  Shakib 
leaves  the  camp  to  live  in  Cairo.  He  is  now  become 
poet-laureate  to  one  of  the  big  pashasl 

Khalid  is  left  alone  vi^ith  Najma  and  Najib. 

And  one  day,  when  they  are  playing  a  game  of 
"donkey," — Khalid  carried  Najib  on  his  back,  ran 
on  all  four  around  the  tent,  and  Najma  was  the  donkey- 
driver, —  the  child  of  a  sudden  utters  a  shriek  and 
falls  on  the  sand.  He  is  in  convulsions ;  and  after  the 
relaxation,  lo,  his  right  hand  is  palsied,  his  mouth 
awry,  and  his  eyes  a-squint.  Khalid  finds  a  young 
doctor  at  Al-Hayat,  and  his  diagnosis  of  the  case  does 
not  disturb  the  mind.  It  is  infantile  paralysis,  a  disease 
common  with  delicate  children.  And  the  doctor,  who 
is  of  a  kind  and  demonstrative  humour,  discourses  at 
length  on  the  disease,  speaks  of  many  worse  cases  of 
its  kind  he  cured,  and  assures  the  mother  that  within 
a  month  the  child  will  recover.  For  the  present  he 
can  but  prescribe  a  purgative  and  a  massage  of  the 
arm  and  spine.  On  the  third  visit,  he  examines  the 
child's  faeces  and  is  happy  to  have  discovered  the  seat 
and  cause  of  the  affection.  The  liver  is  not  perform- 
ing its  function ;  and  given  such  weak  nerves  as  the 
child's,  a  torpid  liver  in  certain  cases  will  produce 
paralysis. 

But  Khalid  is  not  satisfied  with  this.  He  places 
the  doctor's  prescription  in  his  pocket,  and  goes  down 
to  Cairo  for  a  specialist.  He  comes,  this  one,  to  dis- 
turb their  peace  of  mind  with  his  indecision.  It  is 
not  infantile  paralysis,  and  he  can  not  yet  say  what 
[344] 


IN     KULMAKAN 

it  is.     Khalid  meanwhile  is  poring  over  medical  books 
on  all  the  diseases  that  children  are  heir  to. 

On  the  fifth  day  the  child  falls  again  in  convulsions, 
and  the  left  arm,  too,  is  paralysed.  They  take  him 
down  to  Cairo ;  and  Medicine,  considering  the  disease 
of  his  mother,  guesses  a  third  time  —  tuberculosis  of 
the  spine,  it  says  —  and  guesses  wrong.  Again,  con- 
sidering the  strabismus,  the  obliquity  of  the  mouth, 
the  palsy  in  the  arms,  and  the  convulsions,  we  guess 
closely,  but  ominously.  Nay,  Medicine  is  positive 
this  time;  for  a  fifth  and  a  sixth  Guesser  confirm  the 
others.  Here  we  have  a  case  of  cerebral  meningitis. 
That  is  certain;  that  is  fatal. 

Najib  is  placed  under  treatment.  They  cut  his 
hair,  his  beautiful  flow  of  dark  hair;  rub  his  scalp 
with  chloroform;  keep  the  hot  bottles  around  his 
feet,  the  ice  bag  on  his  head ;  and  give  him  a  spoon 
of  physic  every  hour.  "  Make  no  noise  around  the 
room,  and  admit  no  light  into  it,"  further  advises  the 
doctor.  Thus  for  two  weeks  the  child  languishes  in 
his  mother's  arms;  and  resting  from  the  convulsions 
and  the  coma,  he  would  fix  on  Khalid  the  hollow, 
Icy  glance  of  death.  No;  the  light  and  intelligence 
might  never  revisit  those  vacant  eyes. 

Now  Shakib  comes  to  suggest  a  consultation.  The 
great  English  physician  of  Cairo,  why  not  call  himf 
It  might  not  be  meningitis,  after  all,  and  the  child 
might  be  helped,  might  be  cured. 

The  great  guesswork  Celebrity  is  called.     He  ex- 
amines  the   patient   and   confirms   the  opinion  of   his 
confreres,  rather  his  disciples. 
[345] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

"  But  the  whole  tissue,"  he  continues  with  glib 
assurance,  "  is  not  affected.  The  area  is  local,  and  to 
the  side  of  the  ear  that  is  sore.  The  strabismus  being 
to  the  right,  the  affection  must  be  to  the  left.  And 
the  pus  accumulating  behind  the  ear,  under  the  bone, 
and  pressing  on  the  covering  of  the  brain,  produces 
the  inflammation.  Yes,  pus  is  the  cause  of  this."  And 
he  repeats  the  Arabic  proverb  in  broken  Arabic,  "  A 
drop  of  pus  will  disable  a  camel."  Further,  "  Yes, 
the  child's  life  can  be  saved  by  trepanning.  It  should 
have  been  done  already,  but  the  time's  not  passed. 
Let  the  surgeon  come  and  make  a  little  opening  —  no ; 
a  child  can  stand  chloroform  better  than  an  adult. 
And  when  the  pus  is  out  he  will  be  well." 

In  a  private  consultation  the  disciples  beg  to  observe 
that  there  was  no  evidence  of  pus  behind  the  ear. 
"  It  is  beneath  the  skuUbone,"  the  Master  asserts. 
And  so  we  decide  upon  the  operation.  The  Eye 
and  Ear  specialist  is  called,  and  after  weighing  the 
probabilities  of  the  case  and  considering  that  the  great 
Celebrity  had  said  there  was  pus,  although  there  be 
no  evidence  of  it,  he  convinces  Khalid  that  if  the 
child  is  not  benefited  by  the  operation  he  cannot  suffer 
from  it  more  than  he  is  suffering  now. 

The  surgeon  comes  with  his  assistants.  Little 
Najib  is  laid  on  the  table;  the  chloroform  towel  is 
applied  ;  the  scalpels,  the  cotton,  the  basins  of  hot  water, 
and  other  accessories,  are  handed  over  by  one  doctor 
to  another.  The  Cutter  begins.  Shakib  is  there 
watching  with  the  rest;  Najma  is  in  an  adjacent  room 
weeping;  and  Khalid  is  pacing  up  and  down  the  hall, 
[346] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

his  brows  moistened  with  the  cold  sweat  of  anguish 
and  suspense. 

No  pus  between  the  scalp  and  the  bone:  the  little 
hammer  and  chisel  are  handed  to  the  Cutter.  One, 
two,  three, —  the  child  utters  a  faint  cry;  the  chloro- 
form towel  is  applied  again ;  —  four,  five,  six,  and  the 
seventh  stroke  of  the  little  hammer  opens  the  skull. 
The  Cutter  then  penetrates  with  his  catheter,  searches 
thoroughly  through  the  brain  —  here  —  there  —  above 
—  below  —  and  finally  holds  the  instrument  up  to 
his  assistants  to  show  them  that  there  is  —  no  pus! 
"  If  there  be  any,"  says  he,  "  it  is  beyond  the  reach 
of  surgery."  The  wound,  therefore,  is  quickly 
washed,  sewn  up,  and  dressed,  while  everybody  is 
wondering  how  the  great  Celebrity  can  be 
wrong.     .     .     . 

Little  Najib  remains  under  the  influence  of  anaes- 
thetics for  two  days  —  for  two  days  he  is  in  a  trance. 
And  on  the  third,  the  fever  mounts  to  the  danger  line 
and  descends  again  —  only  after  he  had  stretched  his 
little  arm  and  breathed  his  last! 

And  Khalid  and  Najma  and  Shakib  take  him  out 
to  the  desert  and  bury  him  in  the  sand,  near  the 
tent  round  which  he  used  to  play.  There,  where  he 
stepped  his  first  step,  lisped  his  first  syllable,  smacked 
his  first  kiss,  and  saw  for  the  first  time  a  star  in  the 
heaven,  he  is  laid ;  he  is  given  to  the  Night,  to  the 
Eternity  which  Khalid  does  not  fear.  And  yet,  what 
tears,  Shakib  tells  us,  he  shed  over  that  little  grave. 

But  about  the  time  the  second  calamity  approaches, 
when  Najma  begins  to  decline  and  waste  away  from 
[347] 


THE    BOOK    OF    KHALID 

grief,  when  the  relapse  sets  in  and  carries  her  in  a 
fortnight  downward  to  the  grave  of  her  child, 
Khalid's  eyes  are  as  two  pieces  of  flint  stone  on  a 
sheet  of  glass.  His  tears  flow  inwardly,  as  it  were, 
through    his   cracked    heart.     .     .     . 

Like  the  poet  Saadi,  Khalid  once  sought  to  fill  his 
lap  with  celestial  flowers  for  his  friends  and  brothers; 
and  he  gathered  some;  but,  alas,  the  fragrance  of  them 
so  intoxicated  him  that  the  skirt  dropt  from  his 
hand.     .     .     . 

We  are  again  at  the  Mena  House,  where  we  first 
met  Shakib.  And  the  reader  will  remember  that  the 
tears  rushed  to  his  eyes  when  we  inquired  of  him 
about  his  Master  and  Friend.  "  He  has  disappeared 
some  ten  days  ago,"  he  then  said,  "  and  I  know  not 
whither."  Therefore,  ask  us  not,  O  gentle  Reader, 
what  became  of  him.  How  can  we  know?  He 
might  have  entered  a  higher  spiritual  circle  or  a 
lower;  of  a  truth,  he  is  not  now  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  desert:  deeper  to  this  side  or  to  that  he  must  have 
passed.  And  passing  he  continues  to  dream  of  "  ap- 
pearance in  the  disappearance;  of  truth  in  the  sur- 
render; of  sunrises  in  the  sunset." 

Now,  fare  thee  well  in  either  case,  Reader.  And 
whether  well  or  ill  spent  the  time  we  have  journeyed 
together,  let  us  not  quarrel  about  it.  For  our  part, 
we  repeat  the  farewell  words  of  Sheikh  Taleb  of 
'Damascus:  "Judge  us  not  severely."  And  if  we  did 
not  study  to  entertain  thee  as  other  Scribes  do,  it  is 
because  we  consider  thee,  dear  good  Reader,  above 
[348] 


IN    KULMAKAN 

such  entertainment  as  our  poor  resources  can  furnish, 
JVassalmu  aleik! 

IN  .  FREIKE  .  WHICH  .  IS  .  IN  .  MOUNT  .  LEB- 
ANON .  SYRIA  .  ON  .  THE  .  TWELFTH  .  DAY  .  OF 
JANUARY  .  1 910  .  ANNO  .  CHRISTI  .  AND  .  THE 
FIRST  .  DAY  .  OF  .  MUHARRAM  .  I328  .  HEGIRAH 
THIS    .    BOOK    .    OF    .    KHALID    .    WAS    .    FINISHED 


[349] 


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